


Weight of Winter

by GonnaTryThisAgain



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, POV Sansa Stark, Sansa-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonnaTryThisAgain/pseuds/GonnaTryThisAgain
Summary: Cersei may plot and scheme in King's Landing, a Targaryen heir may be sailing to Westeros with visions of greatness, but winter was coming. Though she may not pray to them she swore to any god out there that the last of the Starks would be left standing at the end of this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unedited! Pretty sure my tenses are all over the place. I had to post it or lose inspiration!

Sansa's hand shook as she reached for the footboard of her parent's bed. She never ventured in here while it was under Bolton rule, a strange line she could not bring herself to cross. If she didn't see it then her parents might be just beyond that door. Even now it looked the same untouched by fire and battle. So much had changed, yet there were remnants like ghosts lingering throughout Winterfell. 

If she listened hard there was almost the echo of her brother's laughter through the halls. Enough to remind her of a life that seemed as if it happened to someone else. A second before reaching the bed post she pulled back her hand into a fist. Closing her eyes she saw a younger version of herself reaching up and pulling herself onto the furs as the wind howled outside. Her dad's deep chuckle as he realized another child was joining their pile, drifting off to sleep warm and comforted by the whispers passed between her parents as a storm raged on.

"Sansa." Eyes opening she turned to see Jon lingering in the doorway. She had never found him in the furs waiting out a storm, Catelyn's stern mouth day after day more than enough deterrence to keep him from even trying. Sansa grieved the mother she knew, she also grieved the flaws she was now old enough to see for what they were. "Will you be staying in here?"

Sansa let her fingers trail down the post. Though she is home she is still unsure of where she belongs. "I-" her voice breaks. Where should she stay? The childhood room where she dreamed of princes and rose crowns? The room where she truly became a wife, sheets stained with her maidenhood and open wounds that left her scarred? Yet still her jaw clenched at the thought of it, laying in the rightful place of her parents. Lord and Lady of Winterfell, they rarely spent a night apart. Sansa's eyes trailed up the bed posts resting on the direwolves carved at the top.

"Yes, I'll stay here." She paused. "Unless you would wish too."

Jon's eyes stayed dark, "No. You are the Lady of Winterfell now. These are your chambers now." 

Sansa took a step back as she broke his gaze. For the last weeks she had been trying to read him, trying to learn how to tailor herself to best mirror him. Too many times she had let her own wants burst out challenging him to help her take back Winterfell, challenging his own methods of fighting for their home. Even now she didn’t know if his words were tinged with bitterness.

Jon confuses her, his hands don't linger on her but his eyes do. His eyes follow her wherever they are, not in lust though. She can't pinpoint it, his dark eyes holding too much for her to decipher. Truthfully she doesn't know him, what she does know are distant childhood memories of a boy who was never close to her.

Yet seeing him after so long was pure relief. Weeks on the road had broken her down to one pure want, get to Jon. The spectre of Ramsey chasing her the whole way, lurking in the shadows. The journey was brutal. Days of riding horseback had given her sores in places she could only bring herself to check in the dead of night. Still healing from Ramsey she bit the inside of her cheeks bloody trying to keep whimpers from escaping as they rode. As far as possible, as fast as possible.

Sansa didn't know Podrick and Brienne, they had a routine between them that she knew she was not a party to, taking off armor and sharpening swords as they talked between them. They deferred to her as a lady putting them on unequal footing even with Brienne being of better breeding than most. They bowed their heads to her and turned to each other for company. They fought to get to her and now she was valuable cargo, held separate and above them. Sansa didn’t blame them for it yet still Sansa was lonely, it had been so long since someone had smiled at her and meant it. Since someone had seen beyond her title and her birthrights.

Sansa was never the likeable one growing up. She was the dutiful one who attended all of her lessons in the hopes of being a proper lady of a great house one day. Her siblings fought dragons with wooden swords while she wove flower crowns. Both play acting stories yet she was the flighty, silly one. Sansa got a tight approving smile from her septa while Ned hid chuckles at the antics of her siblings. Dutiful and poised she was never the one to be pulled into the play wars. It took years for her to understand the aching loss she felt looking back at it. She was a stupid girl whose dreams came true in the worst possible ways. 

Sansa was not that child anymore. That girl was beaten, sold, and raped. No, Sansa was only a mirror. Whatever you wanted reflected back at you, never seeing anything deeper than the surface. Anything to survive another week, another day, the next hour.

Jon is honorable in a way that reminds her of their father, steadfast and grounded in a way she feels she never would be. A weirwood tree rooted to the Earth as she bends and breaks in the wind. Sansa had heard whispered conversations of his time beyond the wall, laying with a wildling woman who was as beautiful as she was fierce, parlaying with kings, fighting creatures from old stories with his direwolf at his side, and being raised from the dead to hang the traitors who had struck him down.

Seeing him standing alone facing down an army with her dead brother lying behind him would haunt her for decades to come. Yet he remained silent, keeping his honors and failures close to his chest. Sansa remained quiet about her own past, comparisons would leave her far diminished she knew. He talked with kings while she was beaten by them. Jon found love in a wildlings arms while she bled in her second marriage bed. He became a Lord Commander while she became a bastard. It was a stark difference between them.

"I'm sorry, you know." Sansa said. "About not telling you about the Knights of the Vale, more people might have lived if not for me. I was ashamed, of Petyr and the hold he has on me."

"You should have told me...but I should have listened to you. Sansa, we have to trust each other."

"I do trust you, more than anyone." She stated. "You are the most honorable man I know."

Jon's gaze fell from hers as he sighed. " I'm not, Sansa. If father was here-"

"I love father. He couldn't protect me though. Father tried to be honourable and smarter than those around him. I saw him lose his head for it. Robb lost his head for it. I love them and I miss them but we have to be smarter than them."

Anger flared in his eyes as he met hers, "They were good men."

"The best." Sansa agreed, knowing talking about them in such a way was hard. "I would trade my life for theirs in a second, anything to make them more than a memory. More than a lesson. Jon, Winterfell is ours. If you think they'll let us keep it without a fight, you're wrong. You are good at this, leading these men. I see how they look at you. They will make you King for this, for reclaiming the north."

"I don't want to be King, Sansa."

Pausing she looked at him, his eyes were dark and tired. "What do you want? You came here for me and Rickon. Is this what you wanted though?"

"I wanted for all of us to be home. I've tried to do the right thing, to make choices to protect people. What has it gotten me?"

Me, a voice inside her says. "Winterfell," she answers. "Men who followed you to a battle that was not their own because they believe in you."

Jon's voice is like a knife, anger coloring his words. "And most of them died for it! Here we are in an empty home with my dead family in the crypts. You want me to fight more? When does it end?"

Sansa stared at him, he carried a bone deep weariness in him that she could not help carry. Head bowed with a crown he did not wear. "Undead march on the wall, Cersei is burning King's Landing, dragons fly to Westeros. If I could take the North and set fire to the rest of the continent I would. I care, I really do but if caring that much means I lose you? I lose the chance of seeing Arya or Bran again?" Sansa's breath hitched and she can feel her throat thicken. "They will not let us be until we have enough power to keep them from the doors."

"That's what you want then? Power?"

Sansa inhaled sharply at the soft accusation. Did she want power? Did she want a crown upon her head with a legion of armed men ready to face down any enemy that came to her door? Wearing her family's direwolf on their banners as they prowled the lands like wolves in a pack. Small towns knowing they lay safe within her borders because men swear they can hear howls on the wind haunting their steps. Yes. If it meant she could safely fall asleep at night she would grab power with both hands and kill to keep it. If it meant that the small family she had left could rest within the walls of Winterfell she would ride for days, she would lead men to battle until they were the only ones left on the continent. "To keep our family safe, it takes power to do that. If you think we can disappear, find a small fishing village and vanish you're wrong. If you think that some farmer won't see father in your features and sell you to the kingdom to feed their family, you're wrong."

Eyes falling closed he takes a breath, when he opens them the haze of anger is gone. He strides forward towards her and she almost startles back. Jon doesn't stop until he is right against her reaching up to cup her face, his eyes flit over her face quickly resting on each feature. He pulls her toward him until their foreheads rest against each other. "I'm sorry. I just-" Voice breaking he breathes out. "I don't know what to do. Can’t it just be this?"

Sansa sinks down leaning into him. Her hand comes up to encircle his wrist. "Just stay with me." Sansa answers. "Stay with me and we'll figure out the rest."

Jon nods his head against hers, warm breath washing over her. His hands feel like fire upon her neck and her pulse quickens feeling them drag over her sensitive skin. Sansa’s breath falters as fingers push back into her hair before cupping the back of her neck. Pulling her into him his mouth passes an inch from hers before raising to settle into a kiss at her temple. She feels a brief tug of disappointment in her gut,what is wrong with her? Jon pulls her the rest of the way into a hug. "Together."

Sansa is glad for it, hiding the flush of shame on her cheeks and indulges herself turning her face into his neck. Breathing in she embraces the feeling of security for it surely would not last. Together.

Sansa sat astride her horse enjoying the way that the air fogged as she breathed out. The chill brought her comfort, biting at her face. “You ready?” she asked Jon. 

Jon arched a brow at her, “Are you?”

Sansa started at him before letting a sly grin creep onto her face. Digging her heels in she urged her horse ahead. Breaking away she let them pick up speed until her hair was streaming behind her. She heard a rough chuckle before the stomp of hooves followed her, shouts from their guards came from behind them as they raced ahead. The air stung her eyes at the speed she was riding, she let her eyes close for a second as she embraced the feeling of recklessness. Jon thundered past her and she let out a breathless giggle as they raced next to each other. Seeing the village approaching they slowed.

“You spend a lot of time horseback racing?” Jon grinned.

Sansa’s smile dimmed a small amount, “I’ve spent a lot of time on horseback recently. I may not be a natural but I’ve learned.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that. You were unpracticed maybe.”

Sansa warmed at his words. “You are too kind.”

Jon’s smile softened into fondness as he held her gaze. Sansa felt a flush rise to her cheeks as it lingered on her smile. “This was a good idea.”

Sansa nodded her head, they had sent trusted riders to houses that had not been heard from to determine their reasonings for the silence. Whether they meant to keep peace with the Bolton’s or they wished to hide from the Starks Sansa would know their intentions. Along the same thought her and Jon had decided to ride with a party into Wintertown, she had not forgotten the dead Northerners that pledged their help to her. Bodies glistening in the winter light torn apart. The people of the town would know that the North remembers and true Northerners were at the heart of Winterfell once again. “It was, I anticipate they will be happy to see us.”

“To see you maybe,” Jon defers. “They say you look the image of your mother.”

“And you father. Let us hope we do them justice.” Sansa falters. All too keenly aware of the flaws of her parent’s decisions. Sansa had had plenty of time to ruminate over the acts that had led her on her twisting journey home, both her own foolish ones and the people whose choices drug her down like weighted clothes. “Or let us forge our own path, make our own relationships with our people.”

Jon looked at her curiously with a certain light in his eyes. Sansa felt herself flush again, our people. As if they would live here together to see over the people of the North. “Let us go so our people then.”

After a few moments guards caught up with them, huffing chests as they scolded them about rushing off. Jon met her gaze and grinned conspiratorially all the while nodding along. "Of course, I don't know what overcame us." Sansa commented biting back a grin, glad Brienne was taking a day of rest or she would have kept pace allowing them not a second without her protection.

The town was the quietest she had ever seen it. Doors shut tightly against the outside world, windows dark. Doubt crept in as they passed house after house with no people. Had they all fled as battle raged at Winterfell? Reaching the center of town they paused and Sansa looked toward Jon. "Are they hiding?"

"Maybe," he replied. Eyes darting from house to house.

Sansa looked around and bit her lip. It felt like a ghost town. The market stalls lay empty, wares hidden away. She had run though those stalls as a child, her father secure in the fact that the majority of his people kept an eye out for his children always herding them back to the group from Winterfell. Playing tag they would weave between the legs of vendors amid shouts and laughter. These were her people, she could feel it in her bones.

Hearing a call from nearby Sansa turned her horse. It was a somewhat familiar face, if she squinted she could imagine the woman among barrels of grain in a stall here. "Is it true then? The Starks are in Winterfell again?" She calls from a distance away, her eyes on th direwolf banners held by a couple of their men. Grey hair pulled back from a weathered face she stared with chin raised as if daring them to come after the only one brave enough to greet them. Finally her eyes settled on Sansa, touching upon her bright red hair and high cheekbones. Doubt was replaced with a light of joy. Sansa wondered if she remembered small children weaving between her legs.

"Aye, it's true!!" Jon calls. "Lady Sansa Stark rules at Winterfell!"

Sansa's face flushed as the woman let out a cheerful yell before turning and banging on a few doors. "Get out here and greet your lady!" The woman hollers. Person after person emerge from the nearby buildings. A happy murmur filling the air as they come out to see the Stark banners.

A grin spread across Sansa's face at the act and she met Jon's gaze. He warmly looked back at her, "My Lady. Your people await you."

Sansa looked around, see groups of people emerging. Children held on hips as they formed a loose crowd around the group. She took a deep breath. "We wished to come see you in person!" Sansa pauses feeling the weight of the combined stares. "I know any reunion isn't real until you set eyes upon the person and you know it to be true. These years have been hard without my father, I know. Some of you may have suffered more than I can imagine. I've been called a silly girl by some but my greatest wish is for us to live as a community, sharing each other's joys and hardships. Lift each other up when we are strong and rally together when we are weak. I will do my best by you, I will learn to do even better I swear it. Any grievances you have bring them to Winterfell and I will work for a solution that will help us be better together. But there is time for that later. Today I wish for us to celebrate. Let us rejoice in this moment! Let us be thankful for the now, for nothing is certain."

Jon is staring at her with wonder as voices shout below them. He clears his throat. "Lady Stark has had her best hunters and cooks preparing for this day! We have brought food from the castle to share among you! Let us break fast together. The wolves are here again!" 

A great cheer rises from the group as carts full of meat and bread are wheeled before them. Sansa had debated this action knowing that winter was near and the war would be hard on any supplies they had but...it was worth it. They look doubtfully, wondering if it's a trick for a moment. She wonders what acts the Bolton's had inflicted on the closest town.

Sansa swings her leg over the horse and drops to the road. She hears a disgruntled reprimand from one of her guards. Looking out at the people she took in their worn clothes and gaunt cheeks. They look back at her with fearful awe. A woman close to her held a small girl on her hips, tucking her face uncertainty into her mother's dark hair. Hair still the blond of babes before most of them turned dark, doe brown eyes staring through tendrils of hair.

Reaching out Sansa held her hand in offering. "Let me get you a serving." The woman shifts hiking her daughter higher up before releasing one hand and shyly rubbing it on her gown to knock some dirt off. She reaches for Sansa hesitating a breath away as if Sansa would have second thoughts. Sansa closes the gap and grasps her hand.

Gripping the hand she pulls the pair gently toward the carts. "My name is Sansa, what are yours?"

The woman responds in a soft voice, "I'm Agatha and this is Gwyn."

Sansa turns as they reach the carts, "I am glad to meet you." Her eyes settled on the child, feeling a gentle smile play upon her lips. "Aren't you a beauty? If you're anything like me and my siblings you're running your poor mother ragged."

Chuckling Agatha agrees, "Once they learn to walk, you must be ready to run. Anything within reach is a toy."

Sansa's smile widens. "I can only imagine." Reaching for a bowl she spoons some of the roast meat into it, a couple of roasted turnips, and pulling a few chunks of bread as well. Handing it to her she puts a hand on her arm. "Enjoy the food."

" We will, my lady." She drops into a messy curtsy.

Sansa is glad to see a line forming as Agatha retreats with her child. Making her way down the line she tries to greet as many as she can. Jon soon joins her. There are shocked gasps as Ghost comes up to trot along side them. Sansa smiles, yes the wolves are here again.

Kind but cautious smiles linger as she takes hand and talks to the people. Their eyes linger on her and Jon, seeing the past Starks all too well in their features. Shouts welcoming them home echo down the line.

"You were great."

Sansa turns to Jon a happy flush in permanent residence on her cheeks, she doesn't even feel the bite of winter though she sees mothers tucking children within their coats. "Thank you. I didn't know what to say to them. Only that I wish for us to be together again."

Jon's gaze is warm. "It was perfect, they know you aren't forgetting the past only hoping for a kinder future."

"Exactly," her hand drops to rest against Ghost's head. Scratching behind his ears she lets her thoughts wander. Remember this, she tells herself. These peaceful times will not last.

A rough hand grabs her elbow pulling her backwards. Her steps stumble as the hand pulls her around to face it's owner. "Lady Sansa!" The man has dark hair streaked with gray and dark almost black eyes. Manic eyes trace over her features. "You're just as beautiful as they say."

Sansa grimaces trying to force a smile as his hand digs into her flesh. "Thank you."

"I heard what those Bolton's did to you." His eyes trace down her body, Sansa's blood runs cold. His other hand coming up to pinch a lock of her hair between his fingers, mouth parting at the feel of it. "I heard-"

There's the metallic ring of a sword being drawn. A sharp point rests against the man's throat. "Let go of her," Jon's voice is dark.

The man freezes and she can see his throat bob as he swallows. He drops his hand fingers tugging at her hair as he grins. "Oh, I've heard she's taken rough-"

Jon's fist slams into the man's face. Sansa gasps as bodies collide in front of her. There are yells from the crowd at the scuffle taking place. After a moment Sansa steps forward and pushes between them. "Stop!" She grunts as an elbow catches her rib cage her body barely able to squeeze between the men. Shoving Jon she calls, "Ghost!"

Ghost growls stepping in between them and the stranger, effectively stopping the fight. He shifts his weight fangs bared as he stares at the man who grabbed her. Blood runs down his face and his shirt is slightly torn. Eyes darting between guards shifting toward them and the eerie red eyes of Ghost he lifts his hands though there is an almost pleased curve to his smile. Jon's chest is heaving as guards move to create more distance. Jon reaches for her then hesitates, Sansa rolls her eyes and steps into him letting his arm settle over her shoulder. "Sansa-"

"I'm fine." She ignores the roughness of her voice clenching her hands the fabric of her coat to hide the shaking. "It's fine."

Jon steps forward and though they are almost the same height he effectively blocks her in surrounding her with safety. He glared over his shoulder, "That man took liberties he should not have." 

"Let's not have this ruin the day." Sansa took a deep breath and tried to shake off the event. Jon looks at her for a moment before pulling her along with him. He pulls her out of view of the crowd beside the wall of a nearby building. Looking back she saw a couple of the guards leading the man away. "Jon!"

Jon pushed her against the wall, he ran his eyes over her. "Just-are you-"

""I'm fine, I swear it!"

"He touched you."

"Barely!"

Jon's hands reached up to cup her face, the warm heat of him spreading through her. It chased away any chill left from her encounter. Sansa's heart raced as she met his gaze. His grey eyes were unreadable as he held her for a long moment. "I just want to protect you."

"No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone."

Impossibly his eyes darkened further, they rested somewhere at her cheek where his thumbs rested. It moved slightly, almost caressing her and her breath caught, lips parting as she drew in a ragged breath. Jon's eyes slipped to rest on her mouth and she moved a hand to press against his rib cage. "I will." He replied that growl edging into his voice.

Sansa's eyes were wide. "Jon…" Her voice seemed to shake him of what ever haze he was in. His eyes flashed back to hers and he cleared his throat. Jon let his hands drop to her shoulders as he pulled her into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her. Sansa shifted her arms so they were crossed at his back. Ghost sits vigilant at the gap between the buildings, no guards in sight so she let the moment draw out. Tucking her chin in she let her nose settle in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Stop, she tells herself. Yet still she lets her eyes fall closed as she savors the moment.

****

The morning is just edging into gray, the sun not breaking completely through the haze of night. Sansa had woken up gasping for air. Nightmares had plagued her night, shadows dancing as her fire died. Her ladies now knew that no one was to enter her chambers while she was resting. More than one occasion of her waking screaming as they crept around the room stoking the fire and retrieving glasses had decided for her. Sansa could do most of it herself anyway, some days she missed Shae like a limb. The unflinching honesty and loyalty the only one she had found in King’s Landing, Sansa pondered if she could send someone to sneak her North to her side. An ally that she knew was hers alone but these thoughts were dismissed in the face of all the tasks waiting to be done by any available person.

Sansa’s breath formed into clouds in the early morning. The chill becoming harsher as the days flew by. An unseen hourglass seemed to haunt all of their steps these days. The well worn path to the Godswood had grown over some, not walked daily as it used to be. She had been here a few times, finding comfort in the ghost of her father, walking the path that he had for so long. In this time of magic and myth she could almost believe that he waited there for her just out of sight. It was a silly thought but one of the few she let herself indulge in.

Picking her way across the path she finally came to the heart tree. It’s leaves were startling against the grey, gaunt face staring out at her with an ancient knowing. Sansa settled into the roots of the tree, leaning against it. Pulling out parchment she let her mind wander to the all the numbers it took to keep a castle like Winterfell running. Sansa had yet to find anyone she trusted to handle the majority of the books, she had advisors to help her maintain the integrity of the numbers she arrived to but most of the brain power in the North was focused beyond the wall.

It would just take time, she knew, time to build trust with the people around her. Sansa wanted that though. She wanted the sense of community she had growing up. Everyone from her father to the stable boys made the foundation of the North, everyone had a purpose. None of that would happen with every person training to be a fighter, a defender of the whole of the North. When everyone was destined to be a hero no one wanted to be a Winterfell guard.

The snap of a twig raised her head. Looking around she couldn’t see anyone. “Hello?” When there was no response her heart quickened. “Is anyone-?” Sansa’s question was cut off when an a sharp burst of cold hit her in the chest. As she gasped she heard the snicker of a familiar voice. Launching to her feet she shouted, “Jon Snow!”

“Sansa Stark.” She still couldn’t see him though her eyes narrowed in the direction of his drawling voice. “Are you really working this early in the morning?”

“Are you really lurking in the woods this early in the morning?” Sansa responded.

Jon’s head peeked out from behind a nearby tree. He wore a bright grin and she couldn’t help the responding twitch of her lips. “Aye. I’m patrolling these woods for any hidden dangers, my lady.”

“Oh really?” Sansa’s brows rose. Seeing his grin widen Sansa tucked her papers into her cloak. “Jon, don’t you dare!”

A blur of motion preceded her being pelted with another snow ball. The snow shattered against her, some finding its way between the gap between her dress and gloves. Jon chuckled, “Just think of it as training. For the wars to come.”

Sansa shook of the snow as he bent down to gather more snow in his hands. She used the moment to dart behind a tree. She gathered snow into a few balls and crouched down, trying to use the large tree to hide her body. Letting her eyes roam she saw his dark furs between trees she flung one of her snowballs in that direction. The snow burst against a tree not finding its target.

A giddy bubbling feeling rose in her chest and she couldn't help the breathless giggle that escaped. The morning was still and her heartbeat thundered in her ears, feeling unnaturally loud in the moment. As she inched her head out, "I feel like you have an advantage here!"

Silence greeted her. After a few beats of it passed she slowly rose to her feet. Hearing the crunching of footsteps on snow near her she started to run and was grabbed from behind. Sansa let out a laugh as she was lifted off the ground. Jon was a solid heat behind her, his arms wrapped around her ribs. "Gotcha," his warm breath washed against her ear.

Sansa shivered, goosebumps breaking out as her body settled against his. Their bodies fit together, her rear against his groin and her breasts upon his arms. Her breath shortened as her head fell back against his shoulder. "You do," she responded. "And what do you plan to do now?"

For a moment he just held her his head tucking against the back of her neck. She swore she could feel a ragged inhale from Jon. As he loosened his arms around her she was pushed into a turn. Sansa faced him with cheeks flush from the excitement of their silly game. They were of the same height, breath mingling and fogging the air between them. 

"Well, my lady, I fear now that I have you…." The moment drew out. Jon eyes were alight with playfulness and she couldn't help the warmth at the thought of her being the one who could bring that to him. "I must betray you."

Jon palmed the back of her head, a hidden snowball in his hand and she gasped as cold trickled into her hair and down her neck as the ice melted. Sansa shoved him and watched as he stumbled back with a bright laugh. She shook her head trying to dispel some of the snow.

Seeing the determined glint in her eyes Jon held up his hands in surrender. Sansa reached down to grab snow as he backed further away. She chased after him as he turned to run. Their laughter echoed in the trees as they danced among them like children they rarely were. The morning was theirs, the day could wait.

"King of the North!! King of the North!" The voices seemed to echo throughout Winterfell even though the crowd had long since dispersed. Sansa sat at the head table still, alone in the hall. It was late, most everyone had retired to their chambers.

“Lady Sansa," she hears behind her. Turning she sees Brienne.

"Yes?"

"Is everything okay? It is late, you should rest."

Sansa looks at Brienne's concerned face. She doesn't know what she has done to deserve such earnest devotion. It wasn't her though was it? It was her mother who inspired such devotion that Brienne rode through the continent in search of her daughters. "I'm fine, Brienne." Sansa gave her a small smile. "Thank you."

"Would you like me to stay up with you, my lady? I know today was a joyous occasion."

Sansa insisted, "I'll retire soon."

"Lady-"

Sansa smile and laughs softly. "I promise, Brienne."

Finally she looks satisfied, she pauses at the door but carries on after only a small moment. Sansa returns her gaze to the hall. Hours ago it held dozens of men who were beholden to thousands of others. Families who hid in their homes as armies marched through, who wanted their children to grow up safe and fed. They were all looking to Jon to figure it out, to set them on a path to safety and prosperity. It was a heavy burden to carry, especially with men you weren't sure about.

Sansa had to remind herself, you are not the one they have chosen. You have not lead these men into battle, into victory. Jon doesn't need your opinion clouded his head. She could already see his thoughts warring within his head. It was her hope that her voice would settle him, but maybe it was just the opposite. Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose feeling a headache starting to settle behind her eyes.

Hearing a huff of breath she startled, a grin slowly spreading when she heard the click of nails. Sansa turned and saw Ghost quietly loping into the room. "Ghost," she called. His head raised as his blood red eyes met hers, ears perking up. Ghost padded over to her and set his face in her lap, he was taller than her knees the way she was sitting. Sansa ran her fingers over his face, scratching her nails behind his ears. "What are you doing up?" She cooed at him.

Ghost huffed flopping onto his butt and leaning into her legs. He looked up at her with soulful eyes and her breath caught. "Don't you worry, I'll take care of him." Sansa leaned down resting her head upon his. "We've both got his back now, I promise."

Sansa had seen men hold their breath as Ghost walked by. Earning his name, he stalked the grounds like a spectre bringing a chill to any man who looked too long. Yet he was a comfort to her, many times he walked beside her when Jon was away training or meeting with men. It felt as if a part of Jon rested within him, bearing some of his duties when he was away. 

Sansa relied on him, especially after the events of Wintertown. When they emerged they were met with hesitance but it soon evolved back into a joyous occasion. Families laughed together and songs soon rang throughout the air. Their faces alighting with joy when she and Jon would sing along. 

Ghost seems even more protective now, baring his teeth at men who thought themselves familiar with her and approached too closely for comfort. Letting her hand rest upon his head as he treated her as one of his own, his to protect. It made her ache for Lady, many years gone now. A direwolf who embodied her name, she was a sweet pup, putting up with tied ribbons and smothering kisses. Sansa would sleep with her every night, letting her fire die as Lady warmed her feet. The loss felt new some days, the first of the many tragedies that followed. At times a childish thought would play upon her, that if Lady had lived then none of the rest would have happened.

Sansa blinked as tears burned in the corners of her eyes. Gritting her teeth she forced the tears away. Your skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel she tells herself. Every happy ending you've gotten has melted like snow in your hands, so you belong here where the snow won't melt and the cold will bite through to your very bones. You couldn't protect your father or Robb with your pretty words. You couldn't convince Petyr to keep you despite the devotion and cravings in his eyes. So stop. Stop wanting anything but survival, there are no happy endings for you.

Tilted her head she laid one last gentle kiss upon Ghost's head before standing. Sansa nudged him up and rose from her seat. Laying a gentle hand upon his head she told him, "Go keep Jon company, he needs you." Her forehead creased as he met her gaze with far too much knowledge for an animal. "Go on." He sighed as he rose to his feet and trotted out of the room.

Sansa pressed a hand to her sore rib and took a deep breath. Cersei may plot and scheme in King's Landing, a Targaryen heir may be sailing to Westeros with visions of greatness, but winter was coming. Though she may not pray to them she swore to any god out there that the last of the Starks would be left standing at the end of this. With that thought she retired to her chambers, sleeping restlessly in her parent's bed.

Jon laid out plans for all of the north, for all of Westeros. Sending men with instructions back to their castles, scrounging for information to aid in the war to come. He spoke with command. Jon was a man used to leading, he always had been even though it was never meant for him. The gods had other plans, pushing him higher and higher until here he was named King of the North. Sansa's steps lengthened to keep up with him as he strides away from her. A king with a sister he wasn't sure about, his gaze betrayed as he accused her of undermining him.

'Sansa, these are children. You would see their family home ripped from them?' His gaze burned through her, as if she was cruel monster. 'Make them pay for their father's misdeeds?'

Sansa's eyes were unfocused, a past vision of her back striped with bruises held in her mind’s eye. "We are all held for our father's mistakes. They are children, I agree. Their fathers stood beside Ramsay when they were given every chance to take our side. I would see them placed with loyal northern families and their houses given to men who have fought for us. Men who weren't lucky enough to be born to traitorous Lords and would keep whole houses in line, better than any child would. Men who can tell their sons and grandchildren that they fought loyally and were given greatness for it. Men who would hold the Stark name in their hearts for generations!'

Jon's gaze fell from her. 'I don't need you undermining me in front of these men. I am the king now and my word needs to hold weight. Any disagreement from you costs me respect in the eyes of these men.'

Sansa followed as he strode away from her. “I’m not trying to undermine you! You have to be smart-”

He cut her off, “How should I be smart? By listening to you?”

“Would that be so terrible?” Sansa had watched kings and queens for years, most of the time quietly observing as they dismissed her as a girl with no head for politics or anything greater than the current fashions. She had watched advisors guide the narrative of the ones they served, men who wrote history as they knew it. Despite the family's failings, the Lannisters still held King's Landing. Through fear or loyalty the people of the city hadn't marched on the castle calling for their heads. Her knowledge could be of some use.

They were interrupted as a message from Cersei demanding Jon bow the knee and relinquish the north or be named traitor to the crown. “We’ve been so consumed with the enemy to the north we’ve forgotten about the one to the south.”

“I’m consumed with the Night King because I’ve seen him. Believe me, you’d think of little else if you had too.”

“We still have a wall between us and the Night King, there’s nothing between us and Cersei.”

“There’s a thousand miles between us and Cersei. Winter is here the Lannisters’ are a southern army. They never range this far north.”

“You’re the military man, but I know her. If you’re her enemy she’ll never stop until she’s destroyed you. Everyone who has ever crossed her she’s found a way to murder.”

Jon stared at her with guarded eyes, “You almost sound as if you admire her.”

“I learned a great deal from her.” Cersei’s kind eyes turning cruel in a second, accusing her of treason. Always watching with a plan in place to make sure she was left standing with power at the end of it. Word of her marching naked through the streets of King’s Landing and then burning down the men who did it as she ascended the throne. Sansa would never underestimate her, in her darkest moments she could almost understand her.

Jon shook his head as he turned. Grabbing his arm before he could get out of range. “I would not see us weak and unprepared. If we defeat the Night King just to be starved and laid to waste by Cersei then all of this would be for nothing.”

“Like it or not we may need her for this war. We need any man with a weapon we can find!”  
Sansa dropped his arm. “I’m trying to protect us. I’m trying to make sure that we are alive at the end of this.”

Jon’s eyes looked conflicted. “All I care is that there is an end to this.”

She felt the words like a blow as he walked away from her. Sansa looked out into the men working below her, she cared about far more than that. Thoughts raced through her as she walked while observing the castle that she was finally safe within. When she paused for too long a moment Petyr approached her, with his simpering voice. “What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

“I am safe. I’m at home surrounded by friends.” None of them yours, none of the truly loyal to you. “I have Brienne to protect me from anyone who’d harm me.”

“What about happy? Why aren’t you happy? What do you want that you do not have?”

“At the moment, peace and quiet.”

Brienne approached up the stairs and she was grateful for the reprieve. Sansa cut him off before he could make one more needling comment. “No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish, I’ll assume it was something clever.”

Petyr pursed his lips before bidding them farewell. “Why is he still here?’’

“We need his men.” Sansa answered. “Without the Vale Ramsay Bolton would still hold this castle. Littlefinger saved us.”

Brienned nodded casting a wary eye at Baelish’s retreating figure. “He wants something.”

“I know exactly what he wants.” If he could have me curled at his feet as he sat on the iron throne he would she thought.

Then the raven came bearing the writing of her former husband. 

Queen Daenerys Targaryen First of Her Name, invites you to Dragonstone. My queen commands the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach, an Ironborn fleet, legions of Unsullied, a Dothraki horde and three dragons. The Seven Kingdoms will bleed a long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny. I appeal to you, one bastard to another, for all dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes.

Tyrion was kind to her, but she had almost always felt like he was playing a game she was not aware of. This letter was no different. Words with more than one meaning. A list of forces promising either allies or enemies. Jon and Davos' eyes meeting at the thought of dragon fire unerves her. She tries to shake the unsettling feeling that she is being excluded from a greater plan.

"This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly. He was my brother at the Night's Watch, a man I trust as much as anyone in this world. He's discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass.I received this a few days ago from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister.” His words were met with grumbling from the hall. “He is now Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army at her back and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons. Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys. And I'm going to accept."

"Accept?!" A voice exclaims amid shouts. Sansa's jaw is clenched as his speech continues, trying to bite down on the sting of him not talking to her. This isn't a betrayal Sansa reminds herself, this is the King of the North ruling his people. You aren't an equal here, you are an advisor.

"We need this dragonglass, my lords! We know that dragonglass can destroy both white walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons. But more importantly, we need allies! The Night King's army grows larger by the day. We can't defeat them on our own. We don't have the numbers. Daenerys has her own army and she has dragonfire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us. Ser Davos and I will ride for White Harbor tomorrow, then sail for Dragonstone."

Sansa’s heart was in her stomach. "Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather? The Mad King invited him to King's Landing - and roasted him alive!”

“I know that."

"She is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms. The North is one of those seven kingdoms. This isn't an invitation; it's a trap." Sansa could see it clearly, Jon would never return to the North.

"It could be, but I don't believe Tyrion would do that. You know him. He's a good man."

"Your Grace, with respect, I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted. Nor can a Lannister."

"Yeah! Aye."

"We called your brother king. And then he rode south and lost his kingdom."

Lyanna Mormont stands to speak. "Winter is here, Your Grace. We need the King of the North in the North."

"Aye!" Men pounded their hands on the tables.

"You all crowned me your king. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. But I accepted it because the North is my home. It's part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. But the odds are against us. None of you have seen the Army of the Dead. None of you. We can never hope to defeat them alone. We need allies, powerful allies. I know it's a risk. But I have to take it."

"Then send an emissary. Don't go yourself."

"Daenerys is a queen. Only a king can convince her to help us. It has to be me."

"You're abandoning your people! You're abandoning your home."

"I'm leaving both in good hands."

"Whose?"

"Yours. You are my sister. You're the only Stark in Winterfell. "Until I return, the North is yours.” 

Sansa stared at him with shocked eyes, why would he do this? Jon nodded at her looking at her with determined. I don’t need you undermining me in front of these men. With that thought echoing she couldn’t help but nod back.

Hours later she sits in her solar with stacks of papers laid out in front of her. Sansa is diligently copying bits and pieces of pertinent information over to one single document. Having to hunt through dozens of papers for one line is wasting their time. Putting it all in one document would help them in the months to come. A deep crease had settled upon her brow as she strained to see by candle light. Exact numbers of the grain they have, how many people the castle would hold at maximum occupancy, and more. Dusk was settling outside of her window but she pushed on. Time was creeping up on her, it felt as if the cold was settling into her bones, a burning cold that was looking to take life and limb.

A soft knock sounded on the door of her solar and her eyes fell closed. Sansa knew who it was, of course she did. She had given him a tight nod as she fled the hall after his declaration. Murmurs still filled the hall as they were dismissed, breaking into smaller groups as they left. The king’s plan was not sitting well with anyone.

“Come in,” she called out.

Jon poked his head in, “You have time?”

Sansa took a breath before relaxing her hands. She puts all of her papers to the side and stands as he walks in. “Of course.”

“It’s getting late, what are you still doing working?”

“I mean…” Sansa’s brow furrows again. “The work needs done.”

Jon nods, a flush stealing over his face. “Yes. Listen I-”

“Jon.” Sansa cuts him off. “You know I think this is a terrible idea.”

“It’s what I need to do.”

“So you say.”

Anger edges into his voice. “Sansa.”

“What? Do you want me to lie to you? Do you really think kings meet in person with invading forces?!”

“She is a queen, she deserves-”

“To have a third party send a letter with vague threats and a king to come to her on her terms? What are you even going to say to her?!”

“That if she wants to be a queen of anything then she needs to help us. We need those men. We need those dragons she has. She is sitting on a pile of dragon glass!”

Sansa feels a stinging at the back of her eyes, “And what does she need Jon?! What are you going to give her so that she doesn’t kill you where you stand.”

Jon’s voice edged into a growel. “Anything she wants, Sansa! You know why I have to go? This right here! I’ve told you how dangerous what’s coming is! I’ve told you what we need and you still don’t get it! You agreed, in front of everyone you agreed!”

Sansa reared back as he yelled. “What was I supposed to do? Undermine you in front of your men again?” There was no use to this. “Jon, I don’t want to fight with you. You’re going. Anything I say won’t change your mind.”

“Don’t do that, don’t make me out to seem unreasonable.”

Sansa sits down. She felt helpless, he was leaving. Jon was leaving her and any reasons or pleading would not make him stay. “What do you want from me, Jon? I can’t do this okay? I have had enough bad goodbyes, I don’t need this to be one.”

“Sansa, this isn’t-I’m coming back.” Jon looked at her with tortured eyes.

“Of course,” Sansa gave him a tight smile. “I will make sure everything runs smoothly while you are away.”

Jon strode toward the desk, hands slamming down on it. Sansa jumped at the action. “Don’t you dare do this. Sansa, don’t shut me out.”

“Does it matter?! It’s not like you have let me in! Every decision you’ve made has been on your own and I’m just left with the pieces.” Sansa felt tears welling up in her eyes again and she tried to fight them back. “You’re king, if this is what you wish to do then do it. No one can stop you.”

Dark eyes flit across her face as he rounds the table. Jon kneels down in front of her, he puts a hand a fraction of a meter from her face. His eyes linger on the space as the heat seems to sear her face. Sansa almost leans into it, wanting his hands on her, wanting him to cup her face and pull her into him. Before she can he draws away hand dropping to take hers, she almost wants to cry. Shame floods her gut, twisting in her stomach.

Jon shifts to meet her eyes. “I need you to be here. The North needs you here.”

Sansa lets her head fall back. Of course, she needs to be there for the North. They were there for her, they bled for her. “I will...I will wait here.” A hard glint enters her eyes. “And Jon? You will come back.”

Jon lets his hands squeeze hers a little tighter. “I will.” A thumb trails across the back of her hand. “I will.”

Sansa rises from her seat. “You’re right, I should retire for the evening.” She pauses, him still on his knees before her holding onto her hands. “You know I’m just trying to protect us right?”

“I’m trying to do the same, Sansa.” He leans in, head resting against her hands. “If I lost you…” His breath is hot against her fingertips, voice taking a forbidding tone. Jon grips her firmer and uses her hands to pull her toward him. Shouting in surprise Sansa stumbles and he uses the unbalance to pull even further until she was on the floor with him.

Sansa slaps his hand away, her long limbs sprawled awkwardly around her. “Jon!”

Jon takes her face in his hands, no hesitation, his fingers settling into the hollow of her cheeks. His eyes stare intently into hers, “You matter to me more than anyone.” Jon, “I can’t leave knowing-”

Sansa cuts him off. “You aren’t. Jon, I believe in you.” Sansa sighs. “We aren’t the same. It’s hard for me, but I know that we want the same...” She trails off breath stuttering as she leans heavier into his embrace, her heart races as their heads rest against each other.

“Yeah.” he breathes. Turning his head their cheeks meet. Jon’s eyes are closed, she can see dark lashes resting on his cheeks out of the corner of her eye. Maybe...it feels as if fire is racing along her skin. Sansa turns further, his breath now washing over her mouth. It parts, tingling at the thought of them meeting. He’s so close, body heat cutting through her clothes. Jon leans as his head tilts up, his mouth misses her by inches. His hand upon her face guides her to his shoulder. “Our people safe.” He lays a gentle kiss on the top of her head as acid rushes into her veins.

After all this time she still hasn’t learned. Sansa lets her head rest on Jon’s collar bone so he doesn’t see her face. The shame from earlier burns even hotter, feeling as if it is tearing right through her. Jon is her brother. She is sick, something has twisted inside of her, something corrupted and wrong. Sansa feels embarrassment burn her cheeks as a tear slips down her face and her breath shudders in her chest. She should know. Sansa is not one for pretty face touches, a soft kiss upon her lips and people staying for her. In the songs they sing now she is a prowling wolf, fierce yet untouchable. Even in Jon’s embrace she feels the ice of impending doom creep even further upon her.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon leaves. It’s as simple and complicated as that. Sansa raises a weak hand as Jon gives one last look over his shoulder. Sansa watches long after the gates have closed behind him trying to burn the image into her mind, trying not to wonder if this is the last time she'll see him. As her eyes finally close she feels a sudden comradery. There is an echo of hundreds of women left behind as men leave for war, leave for adventure while they keep the home running.

John is the King of the North and she is the Lady of Winterfell. When the war is over will he leave? Lay claim to some uninhabited castle and make it the capital of the North? Sansa knows he would not force her from her home but would she be forced to marry again? She'd have to, right? To secure the North. What surer way to make an alliance than to marry? Dozens of girls have sacrificed themselves for there to be a better future for themselves or for their families. She could do it too.

What little comfort she found with him in the castle is gone. Sleep seems to always be just out of reach. Ramsey used to cover her mouth and pinch her nose until she woke fighting to breathe, now too often she wakes up gasping for air. Sansa finds herself walking the floors of Winterfell, her hands dragging along the walls. Sometimes she feels as if she is walking within the footsteps of her younger self. Sansa shuts her eyes and pretends, she now has every uneven stone memorized. She doesn't need her eyes to see and there much prettier pictures she can walk through.

The first time she hears the whispers among the kitchen workers she flushes with mortification. The staff of Winterfell say she is half spirit, a haunting spectre singing through the halls at night. Some swear that they see the ghosts of her family drifting behind her in the twilight hours. Jenny of Oldstones come to life. Yet the comfort she finds in her nightly patrols outweighs any embarrassment she felt at the rumors. Maybe they do walk with her.

At night she danced with ghosts but during the day she poured everything she had into Winterfell. A portion of their library had burned but there was knowledge to be found in what was left. Learned men spent their daylight hours searching for anything that would help. Sansa had some look for anything mentioning the white walkers, any tales of the Night King while others looked into the defenses of the castle, past battles and their outcomes. Hopefully the crumbs of knowledge they gathered would lead them to the key, lead them all to safety.

It was a challenge, working with those she did not know, vaguely familiar faces. Some of these people had been here through the changes, suffering through the uncertainties just trying to care for their families while others had found their way here escaping war or seeking work. Sansa questioned where their loyalties lay. Sansa had to entrust the people around her though, there was too much to do. A few of the younger men without ties had volunteered to be her eyes and ears. Information started trickling in from King’s Landing as well as some from camps outside of Dragonstone. Sansa could only hope that they were accurate.

Sansa’s mind feels as if it is constantly working, she tries not to let the people who are counting on her get lost in the numbers. Life buzzes at the castle during the day, word has spread that there is work to be done and the call has been answered. Sansa despairs over the little they can pay them, money still being shuffled around and looked for from the hectic years at Winterfell. These northern men are usually glad for a hot meal and the company of the Lady of Winterfell greeting them in the great hall at the end of the day.

Sansa had made promises to herself, silent vows to her dead family that she would do her best to make these people feel at home. This would be a place of comfort and refuge for the North. Jon would return to a fortress in Winterfell, there would be food stored away, they would be ready for anything and he would be proud. Carts roll pass as the low hum of voices blend together, some of the men already look weary. The north has not known rest in years and now they were faced with a great battle that they don’t even know the face of, a war with an enemy from childhood stories.

Sansa's eyes follow the carts packed with grain. Is it enough? “How much do we have?”

“4,000 bushels, my lady.”

“What does that mean?”

“For the current occupants of the castle, it’s enough food for a year, perhaps more.”

“And what’s the longest winter in the past hundred years?”

“I’m not entirely certain. I’ll check Maester Luwin’s records. He kept a copy of every raven scroll.”

“You’re telling me we don’t have enough food, especially not if the armies of the North come back to defend Winterfell?”

“No, my lady, most likely not.”

“Then we must prepare for that eventuality. Whatever direction the threat comes from, this is the best place to be. We need to start building up our grain stores with regular shipments from every keep in the North. If we don’t use it by winter’s end, we’ll give it back to them. But if the entire North has to flee to Winterfell, they won’t have enough time to bring wagon loads of grain with them.”

“Very wise, my lady.”

“Maester Wolkan, you’ll see to it?”

The Maester bows as he leaves. Sansa knows the man has much on his mind, ravens have been flying day and night. They are trying to get as much done as fast as they can. They only have a year of grain, how much could they build their stores before the dead started heading south? Sansa had no idea of when the fighting would start, she had no idea of when it would end either. There were many battles to come and with them edging deeper into winter every future possibility became messier.

“Are they covering those breastplates in leather?”

“No, my lady.” Royce looks over the work with concerned eyes.

“Well, shouldn’t they be? Once the real cold comes?”

“They should, indeed!! Pardon me, my lady.” Flagging down a nearby worker Royce questioned the work. “You there, why isn’t there leather on these?”

Sansa strides away, Petyr an ever present shadow dogging her heels.

“Command suits you. The northerners are all facing north, worried about the threat from beyond the Wall.”

“So they should be.”

“I know Cersei better than anyone here. If you turn your back on her-”

“You don’t know Cersei better than anyone here.”

“I only meant to say-”

“That the woman who murdered my mother, father, and brother is dangerous? Thank you for your wise counsel.”

“One of two things will happen either the dead will defeat the living, in which case...all our troubles come to an end or life will win out. And what then? Don’t fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend...every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before.”

Sometimes she can't help but hate Petyr Baelish. Sansa has never seemed to escape from the desperate little girl that could only rely on him, the one man that seemed to always have the next three steps planned out for her. She can never escape from him being the voice of reason focusing on the big picture as she foolishly wastes her time.

Bran returns home and he isn't like Bran at all. Sansa remembers fiery eyes as he climbed to the heavens, bright giggles as their mother chased him through the yard. Now he stares at her with empty eyes and tells her how beautiful she was on one of the worst days of her life. Sansa politely retreats to her bedchambers and curls into a ball, wondering how him returning home seems to have taken even more from her. What does he see when he looks at her, what memories does she fail to live up to?

Meera is a constant companion to her brother and Sansa delights in the girl. She is bright and strong, taking her brother’s monotone warnings in stride. Bran lets her prod him into more casual conversation at times, even as his visits to the godswood grow longer. Sansa tries not to feel bitter over the fact that she gets neither the comfort of her brother or the ghost of her father, the woods now feeling as if they belong far more to Bran than they ever have to her.

Arya looks much the same even years later. Her father’s features fit delicately into her face. Staring up at their father she wonders if Arya sees it, if Arya feels the blood of their father burning through her veins like Sansa does. The voice of their mother telling her to smile and watch her tongue while the will of their father is driving her to save them all, protect the North.

When Sansa sees Arya fight it is the first time she sees that devilish glint that she carried with her as a child. It makes her ache for Arya, to be sat in another lesson with Arya impatiently rolling her eyes and shuffling her feet. Sansa can still see her hopping unsteadily from one foot to another while she parrots lessons from her dance teacher but now Arya moves like water, deadly and fluid. Looking around she wonders how many of the people she sees that live in memories like she seems to these days.

Sansa wonders if Jon felt like this, she can feel her eyes catching on Arya and Bran like his seemed to on her. They're right there. They are so close and she doesn't know if she is allowed to touch them. After it all she just wants to curl up around them, bury her face in their laps. Would they run their fingers through her hair like Mother used to do, do they remember? Do they smell the same? She swears if they let her hold them just a little longer than the brief hugs they've had she won't forget again, she'll remember this time. She'll carry it with her, let it make her stronger in the days to come.

Sometimes Sansa will be walking and she will catch a whiff of their father but she can never find the source. She can't quite remember what oils he used just glimpses of her mother laughing while dabbing his neck with slick fingers. Was it his natural scent that was burned in her mind or some strange combination? There's no one left to ask.

Do her siblings blame her for taking it all away? Sansa doesn't question them on it because she isn't sure she wants to know the answer. She blames herself most days. She had visions of greatness, she wanted to be beautiful and special. Sansa had wanted the sun to light up her hair like fire and it just ended up burning everything else. Sansa makes one more promise to herself...she will never go south again.

During it all shipments of dragon glass begin to arrive. Included are dry updates from Sir Davos of the ongoing negotiations. Things are moving along. Jon and Daenerys spend time alone in ongoing negotiations. Many advisors are looking at all possible outcomes. The words are stark facts and Sansa dismisses the niggling feeling in her gut. Jon is busy she reminds herself. She resists the urge to send a letter begging for more details. Are the dragons as big as they are in the tales? Has the queen agreed to a truce until the dead are defeated? Is she beautiful?

Sansa never lets her mind wander for long, she has too much to worry about here. Repairs are still being made. Her men are still hungry and tired. They need another maester, one man is overwhelmed with research as well as tending to the injuries that occur with their tedious daily work. Their blacksmith is requesting more men but there aren't enough skilled workers to keep up with the influx of work to prepare for the coming war. The glass gardens have broken panes, rendering it useless for now and Sansa needs to figure out where to get the resources to craft new ones. There is far too much to worry about here.

Sansa is staring out at the Wolfswood from a window on one of the tall towers. She makes her way up here every few days. The wind has become increasingly bitter, biting through even her heavy layers. The snow has started to build into drifts along the outside walls. How much colder would it get? There are tales of men freezing as they walked in the deepest of winters, how do you fight in that? Against an enemy that never fatigues? Sansa’s head tilts as she closes her eyes, for second she can hear the howl of wolves. She knows Ghost is out hunting and she can see trees flashing before her eyes as she races in the woods.

A voice cuts abruptly through her silent watch. “Why is he here?” Arya appears as if out of nowhere and Sansa’s heart drops as if she is plunging to the ground as she startles. Sansa spends so much time watching her siblings that she sometimes forgets that they are watching back.

“Seven hells, Arya!” Arya looks sorry, Sansa thinks. Sansa squints her eyes or maybe slightly disgusted at her surprise. It’s hard to tell these days. Trying to calm her racing heart her mind finally catches the question asked. “Why is who here?”

“Littlefinger.”

Sansa stills, she should be used to this question by now. Too often lately her relationship with him has been questioned, it’s a blurred mess in her own mind so she can’t imagine what it looks from the outside. Sansa can’t help the tensing of her jaw before evenly saying, “He was integral in winning the battle to retake Winterfell.”

Arya’s brow arches before she takes a sprawled stance against the wall opposite her. “Oh, I’ve heard many things about that.”

Sansa swings her legs to the interior of the window, tapping the back of her boots against the wall. “Then why do you ask?”

“You know, there’s so many rumors going around I’d figured I’d go straight to you.”

“And what rumors have you heard?”

Arya watches her face. “That you are lovers and people seem to die wherever you end up. People poisoned at weddings, our aunt pushed to her death, hundreds dead before you begged for him to ride to your aid.”

Sansa stared back at Arya letting the accusations sink in. These were the sayings around Winterfell? These are what her people said when they knew she wasn't listening? It's fine, Sansa told herself. Didn't you used to do the same? Sansa tried to remember her more carefree days when rumors were swapped with laughter rather than betrayal and hidden plots. “We are not lovers.” Thoughts of his slick lips meeting her own makes a shiver run down her back.

“You don’t deny the dead bodies you’ve left though.” Despite the relaxed stance Arya was in there seemed to be a breathless quality in her voice, as if she has finally caught Sansa in a lie.

Sansa snorts, “Arya, if we’re going off rumors then I fear your past is far bloodier than mine. If you have questions just ask them. I will tell you anything you wish to know.” Mostly, Sansa thinks to herself.

“I want to know everything.”

“Arya-”

Arya’s voice once again took an almost desperate edge to it. “I need to know Sansa, it’s the only way I can protect us.”

Isn’t this what she wanted? Sansa considers Arya. If she allowed it wouldn’t Sansa want to know everything Arya had been through, every night she spent wondering where her family were. If she has to bare her flaws to her siblings to make them feel comfortable? If she had to make herself vulnerable to make them feel safe? Sansa could do that, she could be that for them.

Sansa's foot tapped, as her eyes fell to the ground. Maybe Arya would understand, maybe she would get it more than most. Pushing herself up Sansa stepped away from the window. Standing uncertainly for a moment she dropped to her knees in front of Arya. The move seemed to shock Arya who straightened. “Sansa, get up! It’s cold.”

Sansa looked up at Arya. “Arya, I was a stupid girl who was played all too often as a game piece between men who were smarter and more ambitious than I. I kept playing along with the thought that things would get better. Every single time I was this close….” Sansa made a motion with her fingers to indicate the fraction of a chance she was away from ending up in a better position. When she was finished making the motion her hand unconsciously grabbed Arya’s. “...to anything better something would happen. I was free from Joffrey and then forced to marry Tyrion, I was away from Aunt Lysa and was sold to the Boltons, defeated the Boltons and now a war with the undead is coming.”

Arya’s brow was furrowed. “Sansa…”

“I’m not strong and brave. You are, I saw you. You’re amazing and I’m so proud.“ Sansa could feel tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, if I let you down.”

Panicked eyes met hers, “I’m not. You didn’t.”

Sansa tries to slow her breathing unable to keep her worries in. "I'm sorry I was a bad sister."

Arya's whole body stiffened. "Sansa-"

Cutting her off Sansa continued, "No really! I was always so mean to you and I never tried to understand who you were."

Arya looks at her with unreadable eyes, Sansa leans forward and rests her forehead against their joined hands. She hated this, Jon would be better at it she knew. Arya would settle against him and they would fit like puzzle pieces. They would smile with a shared understanding of battle and blood between them. Jon would be able to sit with Bran during his long silences, his quiet understanding doing most of the talking. Jon had done all of that for her, he would easily be able to do it for the siblings he had been closer to.

Sansa kept looking around and reminding herself how lucky she was, how happy she should be. Some of them men around her had lost everything, whole families were buried across the north. Many had sacrificed it all so that she could be standing on the very ground they tread. She was unbearably lucky...and still so fucking sad.

She looked at her siblings and felt as if she were choking. A flood of words wanting to bubble to the surface. Sansa wonders if Bran could see them. Could he read her thoughts? Does he turn away because he can't stand the weight of her desperate eyes looking back? Is that why he spends most of his days alone, lessening the chance of a stilted conversation?

Sansa can’t stand the thought of it ending like this. Can’t they just have one minute to sit together, to be a family? Just sit with me for awhile, she wants to beg. I swear I'll be better, I'll be more kind. I'll be smarter, I swear. I'll try and understand you. Sansa feels a lone tear roll down her face as she tries to soak in the warmth of Arya's hand, pressing it into her cheek.

"Sansa, I don't blame you...for any of it. You weren't a bad sister. You were just….a sister." Arya lets out a long breath, fingers twitching within her own brushing against her face. "We all thought there would be time. People remember their childhood fondly because there are dozens of good memories to soften the growing pains. Robb wasn't always a good brother, he chose Theon over us a hundred times because we were his annoying little sisters. Father was distant at times, the whole of the North was his family. We are hard on the ones we love because we know at the end of the day they will still love us, they will give us time to be better."

Sansa pulled back to look at Arya. "I do love you, Arya. I've missed you so much, I am so sorry for everything you had to endure."

Arya’s once limp hand moves, tangling her fingers with Sansa’s. “You aren’t alone, Sansa. You weren’t the only one….there were so many times that I….I hate them.” Arya’s eyes are similarly shiny to hers, yet hers held a deeper rage. “I hate them for what they did to our family. I want to kill them all.”

Sansa lets her fingers stroke Arya’s own. They’re so much smaller than hers, Arya is much more delicate than her and Sansa can’t believe the power that they hold. “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay after everything that’s happened.”

“Littlefinger is just like the rest of them. He has to die.”

Sansa’s breath catches. Petyr Baelish is a stain upon her life, he has tainted so much of it. Sansa doesn't know all of the strings he has pulled but what she does know is enough to scare her. In so many of her memories he's in some dark corner watching with satisfaction, as if all his plans are playing out before his very eyes.

Sometimes when she’s quiet she can hear his voice echoing in her head as if it were her own. It made her skin crawl as if he had burrowed inside of her at some point. Petyr was there though, for so much of it. It is a silly thought but she has found comfort in that. The tension she carried with her for years, the ache of no longer being a person. When she was just a tool to be used he would always make her feel like so much more. Petyr may have played her all too well, but he saved her too. To add one more loss to the grief she could almost drown in some days? She aches with the weight of it.

Even though Arya is stiff, Sansa takes the chance to rest her head against her hip bone letting her eyes fall closed. Her knees have started to ache the cold stone starting to sap her own warmth. She can feel Arya's other hand awkwardly settle on the crown of her head. “I know.” Sansa breathes. "He does."

It’s a performance without parallel. Sansa’s doubts are eaten away with every sly comment that Baelish makes, all paired with a ‘trust me, I know better than you’ smile. Sansa often closes her eyes and tries to imagine him gone. Days without him as her shadow, no helpful resource he has tucked away showing up when they were in a tight spot. It doesn't seem possible.

Until the very last second Sansa thinks he may have one more move to play, one last clever smile as he slips away into the crowd. It makes the gurgling gasps as he bleeds out that much more startling. Arya looks almost righteous as she slits his throat. The men are silent as one of the most powerful and influential men they’ve met lies lifeless on the floor. If it could happen to him, it could be anyone. Who hasn't whispered in someone's ear...given a little nudge in a favorable direction? If a time of reckoning is upon them, who knows who may be next. Sansa keeps her face calm through she is betrayed by her white knuckles as they grasp the arms of her chair. Sansa softly announces, “That is all.”

The men file out of the room at the clear dismissal, some still throwing interested glances over their shoulders and exchanging hushed words. Eventually all that is left is her, Arya, and Bran with Meera over his shoulder. Sansa’s eyes are stuck on the growing pool of blood. If she stayed very still would it reach her feet, she ponders

Arya is running a small rag over the blade that had sliced through his throat cutting off the flow of words that had continued to the very end. “It had to happen,” comes Bran’s detached voice.

Arya finally looks up when her blade is restored to a deadly shine. "It did."

"He couldn't be here for the war to come." Sansa can't help her flinch at the words, Bran never said much of anything. Sansa couldn't tell you what he knew, how far these visions went. "I have to go to the heart tree. Meera?"

Meera rolls her eyes but pushes him away from the great hall, the rolling of the wheels echoing in the silence.  
“I never know what to say to him,” Arya remarks.

The blood is a deep red, almost turning black as it spreads, it's going to seep into the stone she thinks. Will it leave a mark, an ingrained spot that tells everyone that this is the place where Petyr Baelish was killed? "I should have done it." Sansa can't stop the words.

"What?! No." Arya exclaims.

"I should have, I'm the Lady of Winterfell. In Jon's absence-"

"He paid for his crimes at the hand of a Stark." Arya uses her foot to nudge him over and Sansa feels her stomach roll along with his body, glassy eyes seeming to meet hers. Arya's looks consideringly at his slack face.

"No." Sansa snaps, her voice harsh. "Don't you dare."

Arya's eyes snap up to meet hers as a guilty flush steals over her cheeks. "I was just thinking."

"I know," Sansa agrees. "It'd probably be smarter, it'd probably help us in the future but I can't. I need him to stay dead."

Arya looks at her for a long moment and Sansa wonders if she'll have to beg her sister for this. She sees him often enough in her dreams, in her thoughts. Sansa needs to know he's dead and buried, anything more than that is just her mind working against her. "Okay."

Relief coursed through her. "Okay. Can you send someone in for his body? I'll clean up the blood."

"You don't need to do that, I can send some of the kitchen maids in. "

Sansa tries to picture it, walking away while the poor women stain their knees red. Would they see it every time they walked past her? Would it be added to the stories of her, another bloody mess she left behind as she fled the hall. No, Sansa needed to do it.

The guards that walked into the hall were young, younger than her even. They wrapped Baelish in a sheet, putting his body on a board to be carried from the hall. She saw one of their mouths purse as Petyr’s limbs dropped when he was lifted onto the sheet. Was this the first dead body he's seen? Is she the one who did that to him?

As she walked into the kitchen one of the women tried to protest as Sansa fetched rags and a bucket of water but she silenced them with a tight shake of her head. Sansa knelt on the ground her knees barely missing the pool of blood as she started her work.The blood had turned tacky, lapping against her fingers as she pushed rags through it. As water hit the blood a metallic smell bloomed in the air. The sting of it burned in the back of her nose. The water slowly turned murky forcing Sansa to make another trip to fetch fresh water in order to finish cleaning.

When the job was finally done Sansa fed the rags into the closest roaring fire, watching as they slowly disappeared. Arya settles beside her feeding a few of the rags herself. Dried blood clings to the beds of her nails and she mindlessly tries to pick them clean. “You’re crying.” Arya comments reaching over for her hand, stopping the repetitive motions.

Sansa touches her other hand to her face, it coming away wet with tears. “Oh,” she softly said. She couldn’t feel it at all.

"Shields up!" Brienne guides watching the small group training in front of her. "Follow through with your movements!"

Sansa finds her way over to the scene, taking in the repetitive movements of the crowd in front of her. There are maybe fifteen people here, a surprisingly eclectic group. Young and old, fair skinned and dark, small and large, men and women. "Brienne."

Brienne turns toward her with an immediate head bow, "My Lady." A fond smile tugged at her lips as Sansa shoots her a scolding look. "Sansa."

"How is it going?" Some of the movements are sloppy but the group seems to have the pattern of the moves down, continuing on without Brienne’s guiding words.

Looking over the group Brienne took a moment to survey them before settling on a firm nod of her head. "Good, it's been difficult deciding how to separate the groups but we've settled on experience level. This way they get training fighting a range of body types and strength levels."

Sansa watched as they went through the motions. Step, thrust, block. The swords were dull but looked heavy in their hands. One woman with dark braids huffed as her arm kept sagging under the weight but kept working to stiffen her arm to keep it pointed. "Do you-" Sansa broke off as her throat thickened, her voice continued even quieter than before. "Do you think I could do that?"

Brienne turns toward her with surprised eyes. "Learn to fight? Of course, my-Sansa." She finished awkwardly.

Sansa shifted her weight from foot to foot, working up the courage. "Would you help me?"

"Training with the others or…?"

Sansa looked out at the training yard, small clusters of people scattered about. The sound of laughter carried over as two boys got into a playful shoving match. She had never spent much time out here, preferring to find her company in sewing circles. "Would it be strange?"

Brienne paused, considering the thought. Sansa appreciated that about Brienne. There were many times Sansa’s mouth had gotten the better of her as she tried to fill the silence, desperate words digging her a deeper hole. Now she was in the habit of measuring her words before speaking them. Sansa knew it often came across as disinterest when in fact she was trying to settle on what she wished to convey.

"I think it would be strange but it would also be nice. To see the Lady of Winterfell training alongside them? To know she strives to protect herself and all others in the castle it would make you more...grounded."

A small smile was beginning to stretch across her face at the thought of being surrounded by her people, all working together. It was a good idea. She would grow stronger, with her abilities and with her people. Sansa's mind was stuck on that last word though. "Grounded?" She questioned.

Brienne’s lips tugged into a small frown seeming to regret the word. "You're very composed, Sansa. It is appreciated in this time of upheaval, a steady hand that is able to look at the bigger picture. But…still untouchable in a way."

Sansa clenched her back teeth not to flinch at the words. Untouchable. Once the words were spoken aloud she could all but feel it brand itself upon her face. Sansa had spent years hardening herself against the world around her, she now found she couldn’t find a way to reach it and have it embrace her back.

Brienne rushes on seeing the tension that seemed to settle upon Sansa's face. "You're just such a beautiful lady! To see you sweat, to see you bleed beside them...I don't think it would be a bad thing."

Sansa takes a minute to loosen her jaw, forcing it to relax. This wasn’t King’s Landing. This was her home, these were her people. They were all working to build something together, she could learn along with them. Bran refused whenever she brought up the idea of ruling Winterfell, Jon would have more to worry about than their childhood home. That just left her, Arya has never even considered keeping still long enough to run a homestead. These would be her people for years to come. If Sansa made it through this that is.

"We'll begin tomorrow."

When Sansa shows up in a simple woolen gown with her hair braided back the group training had looked at her in shock. One man dropped into a panicked bow as the rest of the yard quickly followed suit. Brienne and her watched in amusement as the movement spread through the yard. "That is quite all right." Sansa called making sure her voice carried.

"My lady!" A dark skinned woman acknowledges her. "Would you like to see what we've learned?"

Sansa smiled. "I would, you have all been working so hard but actually I've come to train with you."

"With us?" A young boy squeaked.

"I mean, if that's alright. I fear that I may need help catching up!"

A murmur of agreement answers her, she’s sure some of them are out of politeness but Sansa would take it for now. They would learn to love her. Though interactions are awkward they have all fallen into a routine, Sansa trains with them for at least an hour a day. Sometimes she switches groups, even when she is far outside her ability level to try and meet with the people striving to fight for the North.

Arya finds her practicing the moves in her chambers one night and Sansa flushes at her arched eyebrow. “You’re doing that wrong,” Arya comments.

Sansa throws the small wooden sword to the ground in frustration and Ghost who is sleeping in the corner of the room wakes at the sound. “I know!” Sansa was many things but a natural born warrior was not one of them.

“Sansa, let’s be honest here, you aren’t going to be in the heat of a battle unless Winterfell is completely compromised. You’re more likely going to be here running the castle.”

Sansa could feel humiliated tears burn the back of her eyes. She’s trying here. She’s not good at this and she honestly thought it would be far easier. Sansa had been watching people fight for years, you would think that some of the basics would have burned into her memory. “I just need to keep practicing.” She could learn, she’d practice more. “I can learn.”

“You could.” Arya agrees. “Brienne is great fighter. I would be loath to find myself on the opposing side as her, I saw her defeat even the Hound.” Arya strides closer to her and picks up the wooden sword. “We don’t have any idea of a timeline though, most knights spend their whole lives training to be as good as they are. They say Jon is one of the most skilled swordsman around but he’s been training since our brother’s were boys.” Arya twirls the wooden sword still pondering to herself as she circles Sansa. “No, I’m not sure you need battle training.”

Sansa cries out as her arm is suddenly forced behind her back, her body forced into an arch. “Arya!” The wooden sword is held to her throat. Ghost shifts to his feet, eyes watchful hearing her distress.

“No,” Arya continues. “You need to learn how to fight dirty.”

Sansa stumbles forward as Arya releases her, flexing her shoulder as she tries to stretch out the ache. “Fight dirty?” she questions. Ghost paces to her side and leans into her legs, be looks up at her with adoring eyes until she scratches behind his ears.

“Yes.” Arya faces her with a serious look. “You’ll be one of the most protected people in the North, if they get to you then you aren’t fighting for the safety of the castle. You’ll be fighting for your life.”

Now on top of training in the yard she is also having lessons with Arya. The training was moving her body in ways it had never worked before and it was making her seek comfort in long baths at the end of the day. Sansa was going to bed exhausted, a plus to this extra training. Her body was now as overworked as her mind and she now found she could sleep through the night far more often.

Sansa slips into her simple shift as she readies for bed. Settling in a chair she goes through her nightly routine. Red strands glide through the brush and Sansa still sometimes delights in the coppery shade, expecting black out of the corner of her eye. One of the women that cleans her rooms has a fondness for oils and Sansa will often find little vials left on her vanity. A new favored scent she's discovered in Wintertown, the upheaval has brought new life into the surrounding towns with refugees bringing a wave of new culture and commerce.

The latest scent was a mix of citrus bringing a bright note to the room. Sansa lightly coated her fingertips before running them through her hair, it pleasantly perfumed it while smoothing any wispy strands. Even the simple arm movements made her muscles groan in protest. Sighing she rises walking toward her fireplace, placing one last log on it before heading to bed. As she passed the shined metal she paused.

Sansa’s fingers worry the fabric by her hip. Feeling a rush of boldness she grips the fabric yanking it over her head. She feels a flush steal across her cheeks spreading down her chest, Sansa usually avoided looking at her own body. This is ridiculous, she thinks to herself. You shouldn’t be embarrassed. This is yours and look what it’s doing for you. Through all of this it’s kept you on your feet and still fighting.

Looking in the mirror she runs a hand down her chest between her breasts. Her nipples pebble in the cool air. It’s acceptable, she thinks to herself. Sansa’s breasts are still perky, torso long ending in the small thatch of red hair. This is what men look for right? A beautiful woman, a silent mouth with good breeding.

Steeling herself she turns looking over her shoulder, sweeping her long hair toward her front. This is what she’ll have to explain some day. To a future lover, a future husband. Sansa’s back is striped with white criss-crossing lines. Some are from the knights in King’s Landing but the others...when Ramsey had seen them he had laughed and laughed before telling her how beautiful they would look if they were fresh. Sansa has a few more scars on the tops of her thighs where he had cut her telling her he wished to relive their wedding night with blood-stained sheets.

Sansa reached a hand over feeling along the tops of her shoulders, mouth curling down at the corners. What once had been smooth fair skin was slightly rough, bumpy with the texture of scars. Taking a gulping breath she reached down for her shift and pulled it back over her head as she strode to her bed. As she settled under her bed covers, angry at the tears that slipped down her cheeks Sansa tried to tell herself that at the end of this hardly anyone would be left without scars.

“Your scrolls, my lady. I’ve included the inventory of furs you asked for.”

Sansa give the maester a thankful smile as she takes the papers. Arya is quick on her heels as she enters her solar. “We’re going to need more men to cut down trees,” Sansa comments sifting through the pages. “For both firewood and the fortifications of the castle. Would you send word to the other castles to see if they have any available workers?”

“I’ll see it done.”

As the man leaves Arya shuts the door behind him. Sansa settled in a seat in front of the roaring fire. They’ve been going through their wood supply at a rapid pace between the kilns and just trying to keep rooms warm. Winterfell had the help of the hot springs but Wintertown was getting the brunt of the winds with no walls to hide behind.

Sansa freezes as she sees writing. It’s Jon’s. This is the first time he’s written himself. Her finger runs over his spiky script. She’s very familiar with it, many days she watched over his shoulder as he sent letters out trying to rally the North to their cause. Finally he’s reached out and she lets herself hope that he was coming home. Sansa’s heart feels as if it is being squeezed ever tighter as she reads through the letter.

_To the Lady of Winterfell,_   
_I write to you with many developments. To say time has passed without relent is an understatement. I fear the work here has occupied much of my mind. Davos assures me that shipments of dragon glass have begun arriving and work has begun on the weapons. An expedition beyond the wall has proved successful with the capture of multiple dead. It seems to have helped to ensure the true gravity of the situation is understood by those we have wish to ally with. Though there were complications I can give you the heartening news that Queen Daenerys has agreed to make our cause her own. Seeing the threat that reaches south Cersei has also pledged to see the Night King killed before any further squabbles over the seven kingdoms take place. I believe we all agree that nothing will matter if the dead overrun us. I have pledged our loyalty and our forces to Queen Daenerys, the rightful ruler of the_   
_Seven Kingdoms. We travel to Winterfell to plan our defenses. I can only hope that this letter finds you well. We all have much to discuss._   
_Jon Snow_   
_Warden of the North_

Sansa reads the scroll, Arya looking at her with interested eyes. The words are impossible. Jon couldn’t have given it all up. He couldn’t have sacrificed their new found freedom for the this foreign queen. Jon wouldn't, he knew she was waiting here, they were all waiting here for him. When her mind drifted while tending to the books she had sketched out different banners for him, not knowing if he wished to claim the Stark direwolf. Sansa had already made plans for a coronation in hopes of having one last celebration before the war, a handsome crown sat upon a pillow on the highest shelf of her wardrobe.

Arya makes an interested sound as Sansa's silence stretches out. Sansa buries her face in her hand, feeling tears stinging at her eyes. The words seem to echo in her mind we travel, we have captured, we all have much to discuss. That’s why he never wrote. He had been King of the North. Jon didn’t need her. She wasn’t a team with him, they weren’t a we.

"Sansa?"

"Can I have a moment, please?"

"What did he write?"

"Arya, please!"

Arya snatches the scroll from her, eyes darting across the words. "He's coming back with…" her words trail off. "Jon isn't King, but he's bringing armies to fight in the North, that's something good right?"

Sansa's face stays buried. Tears have begun to slide down her face. It was great, wasn’t it? What will she tell the lords? Sansa couldn’t let them hate Jon for this and they would. Some were still unsure of him being King and this was his first move, to sacrifice their independence? They had all given so much. Aging houses without heirs, children ruling because they were the only ones left alive.

What did she think was going to happen though? She had heard the tales of the beautiful dragon queen. Men had been darting between their camps and hers, feeding her information. Danerys was beautiful, come to life from mythic history. Her hair was as white as if the snows of the North fell upon her shoulder, her eyes violet and her smile was as radiant as the sun itself. Stories told of her conquering cities on the back of a dragon as fire burned the air. She walked through fire unscarred. A queen made for a song, who couldn’t resist kneeling before her?

"It's great," she choked out.

Arya paused, “Is this-do you think Jon will want to be Lord of Winterfell? Is this why-”

Sansa's head shot up, face wet with tears. She felt as if she was choking on her very breath. "Arya! I know you love him more than me but please-" She gasped. "Please just be on my side for once!"

Shocked eyes stared at her as she broke down into sobs. Arya awkwardly settled onto her knees before her, "Sansa, I know you fought hard for the North." Arya grabbed her hands. "If you think this is the wrong thing for us..."

Sansa stares at her breath hitching, for a second through blurry eyes it’s Jon before her once again. For us. Where will we go? She leans forward and wraps her arms around Arya. She ended up sliding far enough that they were both settled onto the floor with arms wrapped around each other. "Don’t leave me." She chokes upon the words, her fingers desperately digging into Arya’s back. “Please.”

Arya's smaller arms grasp her tightly. "I won't. I'm home, Sansa. We'll figure it out."

Sansa knew she was holding too tightly. Sansa knew her heaving breaths were probably shaking Arya. Maybe she was wrong, maybe this was the best move. Jon looked at an even bigger picture than her. Sansa would fight for the North, Jon tried to fight for the living. Is she thinking too small or is he ignoring the pieces that make up the whole?

"What do you think?"

"Of Jon kneeling?"

Sansa paused, trying to gather her thoughts. Trying to fight past the initial burn of shock and betrayal, she gives Arya one last squeeze before letting go. “What do you think father would do?” It sometimes felt as if she could just do better, be stronger and braver than he had seen from her as a child that it would make up for it. Sansa could be someone he was proud of, someone that he would trust the North with.

“I think Father was trying to do anything in the end to get us away from all of it, all the politics of it.” Arya rocked back settling her rear onto her heels. "I think that there's a war coming and I don't know who's going to win. I think we need any help we can get but…." Arya paused considering her words. "I think that it is dangerous to give away any leverage that we have. If we're still standing at the end of this and are already sworn to Queen Danerys?”

Sansa finishes her thought. “It doesn't matter who ends up on the iron throne we’re either indebted or we've betrayed whoever sits on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't quite a filler chapter, just a lot of set up. Any scenes you don't see are mostly the same as the show. I feel like Sansa lives in her head quite a lot and I tried to reflect that. Arya may come across a little wordy? I also keep trying to remember who knows what, so if you see any glaring mistakes let me know! Thank you for the comments and kudos! I'll be working on the next chapter soon where Jon comes home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet from one of my favorite web series snuck in here. What can ya do? Comments are always appreciated!!

“Do you ever wonder?”

“Wonder what?” Sansa questioned pausing her stitching, a direwolf emblazoned on the banner. It was one of many that she had been working on. Every northern house would carry their symbol beside their own. Anyone marching through the North would know that these lands were carved out by the Starks. Stark blood had been spilled here for thousands of years and if she had it her way they would live here for a million more.

“What would have happened if father never agreed to be hand of the king?”

Sansa paused, taken aback by the turn of the conversation. They rarely settled into the past or talked of what might have beens. “You don’t agree to be hand of the king.You bow and pack your belongings for King’s Landing.”

Arya kicked her feet up onto a nearby table. Sansa winced at the act and pretended not to notice the small smirk Arya wore as she watched her twitch at her mannerless move. “King Robert was his oldest friend though. You don’t really believe he would have harmed father for denying him?”

“You met the man.” Sansa hissed as she pricked her finger with the needle, quickly withdrawing it as not to stain the fabric. “He would have been insulted at the very least. Trade would have grown harder for the North, punishments fiercer. Father would have been summoned to King’s Landing every few weeks to negotiate with the King. Robert would have forced his hand.”

Arya hummed silently to herself. “Maybe.”

“Have you been wondering?” Sansa stuck her finger in her mouth, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Sometimes.” Arya’s head tilted as she thought. “I try to picture it. It’s hard to remember who we all used to be. Father watching us play. Mother brushing our hair back from our faces. Robb and Jon going off on adventures. Little Rickon. Bran actually having an emotion.”

Biting off a surprised chuckle Sansa scolded Arya, “Don’t be cruel. He had a hard path like the rest of us.”

“Isn’t it strange to think of who we would be?”

Sansa sighed as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers, worrying at the banner. “It is.”

“I mean if all went to plan, I'd probably be married to some pompous lord right now. You’d be sitting on a throne and have a couple babies.”

Sansa arched a brow. “Maybe a couple of bruises to go with them. More likely buried in the ground, you’d have received a raven of some unfortunate accident that befell me.”

“Jon would still be on the wall.”

“Jon would be dead.” Sansa startled herself at the harsh words that escaped without thought. “For someone without want of power Jon seeks to influence an awful lot. He’s not good at adapting without question.”

Arya studied her face. “A criticism?”

“A facet of his personality, the drive to change the world. Thank the gods he is a good man or we’d be in trouble.”

Leaning her head back and closing her eyes Arya commented. “I can’t wait to see him again.”

Sansa looked over at her sister but was unable to see any definitive emotion on her face. “Jon will be so glad to see you, Arya.”

“I just wish that we could...settle into it without this war hanging over our heads.”

“Me too. Trust me though, you will have plenty of nights like this with Jon.”

Arya’s eyes pop open. “You’ll be there, of course.”

Unable to stop the smile from spreading Sansa nodded. “As long as I am wanted.”

Their relationship had settled into something resembling sisterhood. It was hard work. At times there was a sickening tension caused by their conflicting histories, the choices that had led them down very different paths. It was a slowly relenting source of friction. Mostly though being with Arya had settled into something that reminded Sansa of her favorite dresses. A snug press, leaving her feeling settled and comfortable in her own skin.

“Your gathering is tomorrow, correct?”

Sansa’s smile dropped, the exhaustion she had not been able to shake seeming to settle heavier on her shoulders. Word had not spread yet but it was only a matter of time before word of Jon marching north with the Targaryen queen spread. There were eyes and ears everywhere. One tavern owner with a raven could cause a rebellion to rival Robb's, Jon may be met with an opposing army rather than a warm welcome. Could they be resurrected if they were consumed by dragon fire? Would Cersei be greeted by her burned husk marching into King’s Landing?

Sansa knew as soon as she could convince herself of the logic of kneeling to the foreign queen then she could convince anyone that dared question the move. She just...had to convince herself first. Family, duty, honor. Her mother’s house words felt like a blazing path to the future to her lately, if she could just make her choices based on them they all had a fighting chance. She just had to be smarter than she had been.

“That is correct. Have you heard any mutterings of it?”

Arya snorted. “There are always whispers. Half of them are just made up to cause a stir. They’re worried. Some of them fear the dead are already on their way. Others believe that you are calling them to break the news of Jon’s death. Whispers of Jon kneeling for the queen in more than one, they’re lost in the shuffle. Not really believed by many.”

Feeling her chest tighten Sansa feigned a mask of indifference. “In more ways than one?”

Arya hummed lowly looking at Sansa. Always looking and Sansa feared she saw too much. “Your little pups have been telling me all sorts of things. Jon is spending a lot of time with Queen Daenarys. A lot of time alone.”

“Oh.” Sansa breathed. A lot of news lately had been filtered through Arya. Arya much better at discerning lies from truth and bringing it to Sansa to help figure out the bigger picture. Sansa was barely keeping up with everything as it was. The queen was a vision, there was no conflict in those reports.

Why wouldn’t Jon touch her, love her? Jon deserved that, someone to brush his face with their hand. He deserved someone to wrap their arms around them at night, to keep him warm. Especially if this was the end, who was she to fault him for any comfort he found? Sansa lengthened her breaths, trying to push through the sudden crawling of her skin.

Sansa liked to believe that she knew Jon. When he had a choice he chose family, he chose to fight. They had spent many days together, days spent talking around fires trying to cut the chill of cold Northern nights. Talking of Stark legacies and how they could ever hope to live up to that. Their methods were not but were their souls the same? She used to be so sure.

“This could complicate things,” Arya comments. Sansa hopes she is ignoring the clenching and unclenching of her hands. “I mean I know Jon is on our side. There are sides in this aren’t there?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose she shook her head. “There are different motivations and outcomes. I want our family to make it through this. I want to raise my children in this castle. I hope that is what Jon wants.”

“Queen Daenarys wants what? She was already a queen across the seas. She left it behind to come here, you believe she will be satisfied?”

“If this is her Winterfell,” Sansa ponders. “I cannot imagine a thing she would not sacrifice to see it hers.”

“The songs make it sound beautiful, you know?” Arya’s eyes are conflicted. “A queen riding a dragon to take back her kingdom. But after everything I’ve seen, all the politics and war, it sounds like a whole other pile of dead bodies.”

“Starting in the north.”

“I’ve heard stories about her...I don’t know the whole truth of course but…”

Sansa purses her lips. “I wish to know everything you’ve heard.”

A dream had been haunting her, every time she closed her eyes she would see it again. Sansa is flying over a pristine field of freshly fallen snow, the air is sharp and crisp stinging her eyes as she glides. Cresting over a line of trees the field becomes dotted with red, bloody stains on the once perfect landscape. Fog is rolling through the eerie daybreak. It is only when she sees charred trees that Sansa knows it’s not fog, it’s steam layering the earth.

A terrible roar rattles her chest and she can feel fire boiling within her, fire unwillingly rains down tearing the very earth open beneath her. She makes a sharp turn and sails over Winterfell, she is terribly hungry. She eats and eats but knows no satisfaction.

Winterfell looks empty with windows dark and nothing enticing wafting through the air. Landing upon one of the towers the stone crumbles beneath her. She looks over the barren landscape, no easy meals sitting upon a plot of land. But if she can burrow deep enough, tear through the walls and get to the heart of Winterfell she is sure that she can find something to eat. One can only hope it’s still fresh and beating.

Sansa would wake shaking in her bed, often skipping breakfast unable to shake the sick feeling in her stomach. The thought would niggle at her throughout the day. Dragons were intelligent creatures. As she was discussing with Arya though, every creature on this planet was motivated by something. By home, by hunger, by love. How much control did Daenerys have over them, where did her drive end and their own wants begin?

“It’s a betrayal is what it is!”

Sansa struggled to keep her face placid. It had been days but the uproar over Jon’s decision still hadn’t settled, not that she expected it to any time soon. Arya and her had decided to stick to the simplest of facts, it was hard to argue with the truth no matter how much you wished to. Jon, as ruler of the North had stepped down in order to secure powerful allies in the hopes of survival against the dead.

“Lady Mormont, you are the ones that elected him as King of the North. You entrusted him to make decisions in the best interest of us all and I can assure you that is what he is doing.”

“We chose him as King of the North so we could be an independent kingdom in the wars to come!” A voice shouted from the back of the room.

“If you want to survive the wars to come you’ll do well to abide by the decision of your warden.” Sansa firmly responded, an outraged roar came in response from the northern representatives. The great hall was filled to the seams, she was sure there were those with their ears to the door as well. Sansa let her eyes fell closed for a brief second. She was scrambling to fill in all the blanks that Jon left in his letter.

“I know not all of you trust me,” Sansa began, her even voice cutting through the chatter. “I know some of you are uncertain of where my loyalties may lie believing me to have some stray thoughts of Lannisters and iron thrones. My only loyalty is to the North. I implore you to hear those words and know them to be true. I would not lie to you, I know Jon Snow. We’ve had conversations about the thrum of the North beating in our hearts, a bone deep love that Ned Stark instilled in us. Many of you sat with my father, you walked these lands with him, you bleed in battle beside him. My only wish is to honor the sacrifice that my family, that so many of our Northern families have made.”

“Your brothers died for our freedom!”

Sansa let her eyes fall closed again before opening them to meet the solemn gazes staring back at her. “Thousands of men are marching north with dragons flying overhead. We’ve had a dozen shipments of dragonglass arrive already and I can only hope that more are coming. In this moment it is not about Northern freedom, it is purely about survival. You must all be aware of the danger we are in. We are surrounded by enemies on all fronts. If we are not careful we will starve up here, joining the army of the dead as it marches south. I would like for us to stand independently but above all else I wish to look at this hall in ten years and see the same faces looking back at me. I wish my children to run these lands like I have. I want my father and brothers to live on through stories told to generations of Starks. None of this will happen if we are consumed by dragonfire before the war begins.”

"You believe her to be dangerous?"

Arya was tucked away in the corner, her eyes have been darting around the room continuously watching the faces. Sansa wondered what she saw, did she find betrayal in any of those eyes? Hidden motives in their eyes? Arya's eyes settled on hers and watched her for a moment before nodding. Truth it was then.

"As I said, we are in a dangerous position. I've not personally spoken to Jon, so he may know many things I do not. Queen Daenerys is wanting to lay claim over the seven kingdoms, I don't believe she will let us quietly fade into the background as she lays siege to King's Landing. There are many battles ahead but I swear to you I will be working to make sure we come out of this the very best that we can."

"Targaryen." Someone spat the word.

"We're with you, my lady. We should have named you-"

"Don't," Sansa cut off the statement before it could be completed, the thought of it made her heart pound. It felt like betrayal. Pushing out of her chair Sansa straightened to her full height and tried to pour every ounce of steely grace she could into her posture. "We are not forsaking those who are negotiating on our behalf. We are northern and we are loyal to our own. Those here may have had our squabbles, but Starks have been here for thousands of years and we will be here a thousand more. We are the heart of the North and we will keep it beating as long as there is breath in our bodies. Jon Snow is as true of a Stark as can be and you'll do well to remember that. I am counting on all of you, she can not see a drop of weakness. There will be no threads of betrayal that she can turn against us. We must be smart about our actions. I will fight for every one of you, I swear it. When he returns Queen Daenerys will find a united North behind Jon Snow.“

Sansa sees hesitation upon many of the faces but slowly nods seem to spread throughout the hall. Relief spreads through Sansa’s body now that she wasn’t faced with an all out war. Relief turns quickly sour as Lord Royce speaks. “Aye, we’ll be a united North. You stand behind Jon Snow. We will stand behind you, my lady. As protector of the North.”

Fists begin pounding on the tables in a repetitive beat, and Sansa’s heart feels strangely in time with it. A cheer rises up in the hall, “Lady Stark!”

Sansa lets her eyes meet Arya’s and is met with a carefully blank face in return. She wonders if this is treasonl. If she must stand between the North and Queen Daenarys, if that is her destiny, if that leads to her end it is a sacrifice she is willing to make.

The man muttered to himself as he darted about the glass gardens. Sansa followed at a measured pace as he abruptly changed directions. After weeks Sansa had finally found a craftsman to repair the glass gardens and with those repairs being made they needed to plant crops as soon as possible. Thousands of men were heading North and their stores would rapidly disappear.

Sansa had sent word into town inquiring about the local farmers, any man willing to try and set Winterfell to rights. According to the locals a man named Bren was a miracle worker, he could grow anything and when brought to a farm you would see a field of green within days. Sansa had called upon the man and he agreed to come consult on Winterfell's crops.

The man had stark white hair, curls surrounding his face. His dark brown skin was weathered, eyes showing lines as if years of squinting into the sun had taken their toll. Sansa’s brow arched as he grabbed a handful of dirt and crumbled it in his hands sniffing the air as he did it. “Are you able to help us?”

“Hmmm,” he hums to himself before walking over to a tangled vine and fingering the now brown leaves. Bren strode toward her, handing her a withered husk of a turnip. Sansa's brow furrowed in confusion as he quickly turned away again. “I believe I can. I will need time of course.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sansa nodded. “Of course, whatever you need. With the coming times these gardens will be crucial for the North. You will be rewarded handsomely of course.”

Bren rapidly shakes his head. “No, my lady. I do not wish for money. Watching these crops grow will be all the payment I need.”

“Sir, I must insist that you-”

“No. There is little money can do for me.”

“At least take a room in Winterfell, you will not have to make the trip every day. We have enough to go around.”

A small smile quirked his mouth crumpling his face pleasantly, “It would be my honor.”

Sansa stumbled as she unexpectedly lost her balance to the chuckle of a nearby guard who quickly cleared his throat and acted as if he saw nothing. Turning she was greeted with Arya’s impish look, eyebrows cocked. Arya having bent her knee into the back of Sansa's buckling it instantly.

Arching a brow Sansa scolded her, “You’re lucky I didn’t fall into a mud puddle.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t fall into a mud puddle, what a greeting for the conquering queen.”

Huffing a breath, Sansa looked out from the ramparts. It was time. A scout had spotted the approaching army and the would be here within the hour. Even with all the preparation that had been done the castle was in an uproar, every occupant was scrambling to keep their hands busy.

Arya tilted her head, “Any moment now. I’ll be…” She made a vague hand gesture.

“Of course.” Sansa nodded, knowing the way Arya could fade into a crowd. “Tell me what you see.”

Arya let herself fall into a lazy curtsy, “As you command.”

Rolling her eyes, Sansa started turned away before pausing. "Thank you, Arya. I appreciate it." Arya looked surprised for a moment before nodding with a small curve on her lips and striding away.

The winds were sharp with winter, the untainted smell of snow in the air. Shutting her eyes Sansa just breathes for a moment, just one moment to let herself soak it in. It was going to change, it always did. Sansa was alone up here, with only one guard turned away from her. She allowed herself to shuffle in place to keep the cold from cutting too deeply. No one is there to judge her manners, her arms were crossed in front of her with hands grasping her elbows.

Sansa had expected this day, this moment to feel like a stone pulling her to the ground. A great weight in her stomach pinning her into place. And yet...she was untethered. Most days Sansa felt as if she could blow away with a strong wind. Sometimes she felt as if she was barely there, only kept together by the tight laces of her dresses and her own arms wrapped around herself. One day she fears she may crumble into pieces, so little left behind that no one would even think to look for her.

Unsure of how long she stood there Sansa shook herself from her melancholy thoughts. Opening her eyes her gaze is caught by two dark shapes dotting the sky. A screeching cry cuts through the silence and Sansa feels her heart pick up speed as her breath leaves her body. Ripped from legends two dragons soar overhead, wings spread wide as they glide over her. Sansa can’t look away as they soar so easily over Winterfell. Distance eaten up in seconds. Every worst fear circling the skies above her. One breath and she would be ashes on the wind. How small they all must look from so very high.

Even while her hands shake Sansa descends into the courtyard of Winterfell, for she does not have the option of hiding away until she feels up to the task of politics. Sansa strides to where many are waiting for her. Her hand unconsciously falls to the head of a young boy running past with a group of children, he looks up at her with starry eyes. “My lady!” he greets in a squeaky voice. The other young children were quick to echo it.

Sansa let her hand linger for a moment on fine silky hair, her eyes taking in the group before her. Giddy grins and flushed cheeks were spread throughout and she felt her breath catch at the innocence in their gazes. God, did she used to look like that? Did the adults watch her with breaking hearts knowing that it could not last. Steeling herself Sansa pursed her lips, before giving him a gentle nudge. “None of that now, run along.” Giggles trailed behind them as they ran toward waiting crowds.

Sansa gave the group of waiting lords a stern glance and their murmurs quieted but did not cease as she positions herself. A smile quirks as a sudden warm weight rests upon her feet. She is greeted with blood red eyes as Ghost looks up at her upside down. Sansa lets her gloved hands rub under his chin. “Hello, love.” Did he sense the hole his sister had left inside of her when she died? Sansa would never understand Ghost’s love for her, but she would never betray that loyalty. He growled lowly in his throat in pleasure before huffing and turning his head towards the gates. Sansa bit back a grin at his dramatics, it fell easily as the rumble of horses and carts grew louder.

Straightening as if a string was pulling her spine taut Sansa lifted her head as the gates creaked open. There are few riders leading the party into Winterfell and within moments she sees them seated on horses, side by side. Jon picks up speed as he sees the waiting group, eyes falling onto the sitting figure of Bran. He barely waits for his horse to stop before descending and rushing forward. Jon easily palms Bran’s head as he presses a kiss into his hair, a grin splitting his face. “Look at you. You’re a man.”

“Almost.”

Jons stretching smile fades at the even remark and murky eyes looking back at him. She can’t help but watch the exchange, her heart aching at the disappointment he must feel. To have Bran back but so changed was a tragedy that was hard to justify when others lost much more, when they had lost much more.

Jon rises and strides toward her clasping Sansa without thought. They’re of the same height, her face easily settles into his neck as her hands grasp his cloak. Sansa has a clear look at Daenerys over his shoulder, the conquering queen. He pulls away, too quickly for her to really sink into the embrace. “Where’s Arya?”

“Lurking somewhere.” Watching. Jon’s hand falls to the head of Ghost and he scratches behind his ears. A small furrow appears as he steps away to gesture toward the queen and Ghost stays seated at her feet.

The picture they all must make staring at the outsiders, a stoic pool of northern faces with the brightest color being Sansa herself. Sansa considers her, Daenerys is smaller than she could imagine. It's so strange, Sansa thinks. Of all the stories she had heard it was hard to contain them to this one person standing before her. Every version of Daenerys stood like shadows around the woman before her. Sansa sees her take a quick glance behind her before she strides toward them, “Queen Daenerys of House Targeryan.” Jon announces. “My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.”

Sansa considered how to sell their loyalty, a curtsy? Yet those words thrum a dark thread within her and she tries to school her face as she feels an instinctual snarl grace it. How touching, another compliment of her beauty. Apparently her one remarkable feature. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Still the screeching of dragons rattled her bones. “Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

Bran intones from beside them. “We must act quickly. The Night King has your dragon. He’s one of them now. The wall has fallen, the dead march south.”

Queen Daenerys’s face grows pensive at the news, eyes automatically reaching for Jon’s as he returns her gaze. Sansa bites the insides of her cheeks as she watches before silently nodding when they turn toward her. “Follow me.” She gestures toward Winterfell, a warm embrace in the aching cold she feels outside of it.

“Come in.” Sansa calls, anger coloring her tone. Jon enters the room and Sansa motions the letter toward him. “Lord Glover wishes us good fortune but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.”

“House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years. That’s not what he said?” Jon incredulously questions.

“I will stand behind Jon Snow, he said.” Sansa corrects watching him. “The King in the North.” The dim lighting in the room softens his features.

Jon pauses looking at her, the room dark and he is hard to read on a good day. They’ve not really had the chance to talk since he had returned to Winterfell. “I told you we needed allies.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown.” You never tell me.

“I never wanted a crown. All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.”

“And a Targeryan queen.”

“Do you think we could beat the army of the dead without her? I fought them, Sansa, twice. You want to worry about who holds what title? I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Without her, we don’t stand a chance.” Jon lets out a deep sigh. “Do you have any faith in me at all?”

“You know I do.” Sansa is taken aback that he even has to ask. She has been here, on his side no matter what. Days and days of meetings explaining his actions based on one page of a letter, struggling to keep people here, to keep their loyalty. Sansa debates reaching toward him, unsure if he would welcome it she crumbles the scroll in her hand.

“She’ll be a good queen. For all of us. She’s not her father.”

Sansa’s gaze falls away from his. “No, she’s much prettier.” A smile graces his face and Sansa’s eyes sting over it. How often had she seen that smile? Rarely, yet here it was at the mention of her beauty. “Did you bend the knee to save the North or because you love her?”

Shocked eyes stare at her, yet he does not answer her question before a door opening breaks their gazes.

“The moment we can get the last infantryman out onto the field, we should shut the gates.” Royce suggests.

Sansa considers it, people beating on the doors as the dead descend. “Keep them open for as long as you can. There are still people coming in from the countryside.”

Daenerys walks through the door without hesitation. “Lady Sansa, I was hoping we could speak alone.” Sansa nods at Lord Royce and waits as he bows before leaving the room. “I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before. About Ser Jaime.”

The reluctant acceptance of Jamie Lannister was dependent on only one factor. “Brienne has been loyal to me, always. I trust her more than anyone.”

“I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors.”

“Tyrion is a good man. He was never anything but decent towards me.” Sansa comments resisting Daenerys’ attempt to pull her into low talk of the man.

“I didn't ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good. I asked him to be my Hand because he was good, and intelligent, and ruthless when he had to be. He never should have trusted Cersei.”

Sansa could have told them that, with hardly any ties left in the world Cersei had no one left to fight for but herself. Cersei would never pledge her forces out of the goodness of her heart. “You never should have either.”

Daenerys grimaces at the statement. “I thought he knew his sister.”

“Families are complicated.”

“Ours certainly have been.”

“A sad thing to have in common.”

“We have other things in common. We've both known what it means to lead people who aren't inclined to accept a woman's rule. And we've both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell. And yet, I can't help but feel we're at odds with one another. Why is that? Your brother?”

“He loves you, you know that.” He must, with small smiles and stolen moments together. Jon had barely even looked at her since he had returned. Sansa tried not to let it sting her, knowing the many tasks that were pressing upon them all.

“That bothers you.”

“Men do stupid things for women. They're easily manipulated.”

“All my life, I've known one goal: the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours. My war was against them. Until I met Jon. Now I'm here, half a world away, fighting Jon's war alongside him. Tell me, who manipulated whom?”

Sansa scoffs and considers Daenerys, letting a small smile play across her face to hide her grinding teeth. Fighting Jon's war. Was she trying to play into Sansa's own loyalties or did she still truly not believe this was her fight? Seeing the dead first hand, seeing the faces of a thousand Northerners who she wished to claim as her own did not say her? “I should have thanked you the moment you arrived. That was a mistake.”

An all too easy smile spreads as Daenerys is given what she wants, a loyal and unquestioning audience. “I'm here because I love your brother and I trust him and I know he's true to his word. He's only the second man in my life I can say that about.”

“Who was the first?”

“Someone taller.”

They both chuckle together and Sansa cringes internally at the sound. “And what happens afterwards? We defeat the dead, we destroy Cersei. What happens then?”

Daenerys responds like it’s obvious. “I take the Iron Throne.”

“What about the North? It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we'd never bow to anyone else again. What about the North?”

Sansa watches as Daenerys physically withdraws from her and coldly considers Sansa. For a moment Sansa wishes this was different. That Sansa was that young woman again, sitting and giggling with a beautiful queen. Sansa had played out that story and had payed a hefty price for it. Yes, Sansa wouldn't be sitting and bonding with Daenerys anytime soon.

Maester Wolkan opens the door interrupting the laden moment. Sansa had thought to never see Theon again and when he pledges to fight for Winterfell, for her she can do nothing else but embrace him. For only a moment she can feel Robb in the embrace, a debt repaid.

Despite the tense atmosphere a great feast was to be held the night after. Sansa had planned for it, working with the cooks in hopes of having indulgent dishes without bankrupting their stores. Music was being provided by we residents of Wintertown in the promise of food and drink at the end of the night. Sansa was endlessly grateful, every inch she asked of from her people they allowed her a mile.

The beginning of the meal is awkward with Jon positioned between her and the queen. Sansa shifts uncomfortably in her seat, when he is not giving bitten off answers to Daenerys he is exuding a dark forbidding energy. More than once Sansa finds herself about to ask before biting it off, knowing that this is not the time or the place. Her cup of ale meets her lips all the more often in hopes of keeping her silence.

Feeling quite unburdened with the amount she had drank Sansa is enthralled with the chatter in the hall. The music picks up pace and Sansa finds herself on her feet debating whether to join the fray of dancers. Any reservations are done away with as a couple brave souls offer to be her partner. Sansa finds herself on the dance floor and lets herself get lost in the crowd. She is a young girl again, breathlessly whirling about the dance floor.

If she closes her eyes she can almost imagine looking up to see her father here amongst his people. Sansa stumbles and loses her rhythm at the thought. Her giddiness fades some. She excuses herself to find someone serving ale to quench her thirst. Looking around Sansa wonders how long will these be her father’s people in her eyes? Maybe until the end of her days, she thinks.

Sansa smiles at the mix of commoners and titled dancing in the room. Sansa had invited many on a whim in the last few weeks, anyone she saw with a troubled look and tired hands she offered an evening without thought. A small giggle escaped as she saw some flustered guards watch more and more people pour into the room. In Sansa’s opinion it was pleasantly crowded, yet Sansa saw Jon trying to fade into a corner wearing a deep scowl. They would need to talk soon, if only to smooth the damned furrow on his brow.

Arya appeared next to her as if out of nowhere. Sansa had almost trained herself out of flinching at the sudden appearance of her sister. “Are you having fun?” Sansa questioned.

Sansa watched Arya’s eyes flit over to a man with dark shorn hair and bright blue eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar and Sansa wondered at the connection. “As much as I can be,” Arya mutters. Arya’s eyes turn and linger on her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sansa touches her hair self-consciously and winces at the lying lilt of her voice.

Arya hums to herself. “You deserve more dancing.”

A startled laugh escapes her at the comment. “Everybody deserves more dancing.”

The gaze doesn’t break and Sansa feels her breath catch. “Yeah, but you do. You do a lot and I don’t think you necessarily get the credit you deserve.”

Sansa can feel her throat thicken at the comment. “Thank you, Arya.” She reaches out and wraps an arm around Arya pulling her into her side. “It almost feel like home, doesn’t it?”

Arya’s eyes settle again on the young man across the room. “It really does.”

Sansa feels herself swaying in place as she stands before the door of her chambers. A guard is fighting a smile, "Do you need help, my lady?"

Sansa holds up a palm. A hiccup escapes and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth. "No, no. I've got it."

Swinging open the door, she looks back at the guard. "My chambers will be locked and I will be retiring for the night." A smile quirks her lips, "I know there is still dance and drink to be had downstairs."

His cheeks flush, "Thank you, my lady."

The door closes firmly behind her and she rests against it trying to get her bearings. She feels as if she is in motion, the world still swaying as if she is dancing still.

"Sansa."

Heart leaping her eyes shoot open, Jon is seated on one of the chairs before her hearth. "Seven hells, Jon. Why are you lurking in my chambers?"

Jon stays seated, his eyes dark and troubled as they have been all day. "No one will bother me here."

Sansa pushes off from the door and makes her way to the partnering chair. "Except for me."

"You are never a bother." Jon's dark eyes stay on her as she settles near him.

Giggling Sansa disagrees. "Oh, I know that is false."

Jon's eyes lighten some, a small smile playing on his face. "Sansa Stark, you are drunk."

Reaching out she grabs his hand. "Shhh, you mustn't tell."

Turning his hand over he laces their fingers together."And get you in trouble? Never."

Sansa feels her heart quicken at the warmth of his hand. Her thumb runs over his palm feeling the rough calloused skin and his eyes fall to where their skin meets. Maybe they could just stay like this for awhile, she won't ask for anything more. Sansa ignores the urge to move until she's in his embrace, pressed against him until they are indistinguishable from one another. She happily hums and finds herself tracing his fingers with her own, a hiccup escaping.

"Sansa, maybe it's time for you to get to bed." Jon suggests a laugh ringing his voice eyes still watching her. What do you see, she wants to ask. Always looking but never saying enough.

"No," Sansa exclaims panic rising. "I just want to…"

"It's okay," Jon comforts, a hand raising up to her face to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "We can talk tomorrow."

It won't be the same, she knows. The Jon here tonight is one that touches her hair and laughs with gentle eyes. Tomorrow he will be stony eyes and faithful words to Daenerys. Here in the golden tinge of firelight, in the warm walls of Winterfell he's hers, as much as he ever will be. "No, just stay for a bit. I miss you."

Jon considers her his hand falling from her hair. "I'm right here, Sansa."

"It's not the same." Sansa drops her eyes feeling embarrassment well up within her. He's here, why must she always want more? Pulling her hand away she rises and walks toward her dresser. Sansa runs her fingers through her hair feeling for pins, closing her eyes against the slight rocking of the room.

Jon raise from his chair and follows, pulling her arm to turn her toward him. "Don't do that, Sansa"

"Jon, we've had this conversation before. I just...I wanted tonight to be a good one."

"It was."

Sansa meets his eyes. "Not for you. You were brooding in a corner all night."

Jon's mouth turns down in a playful frown. "I was not brooding."

Sansa leans closer to him, earnestly looking into his eyes. "Jon Snow, I fear you are quite a broody man. You did not even dance once."

"I'm sorry." Jon pulled her even closer, a grin lit his face. "We can dance now." She can't help but follow the pull, letting her forehead come to rest against his shoulder as he swayed with her. Sansa can feel the rumble of his chuckle. "I'm afraid I'm not very good, I never had to do dance lessons with you all."

"No," Sansa hums quietly. "This is nice."

Sansa breathes in letting the scent of winter and worn leather soak in. Jon is warm against her and he lets her hand settle on his back. His cheek pressed against her temple. Would he mind just staying like this? The war would wait, right? Until she was ready.

"Sansa."

"Sshhhh," Sansa blindly reaches a hand up. "Let me have this."

Jon snorts unflatteringly at the slap of her hand against his face. Yet he gently grasps her hand and holds it against his face leaving it a long moment before pressing a kiss into the palm. Sansa stills at the action and starts to pull away but he grasps her tightly against him. She still pulls her head back to look at his face.

Jon's eyes are unreadable and Sansa wishes she was more sober. If she was she was, she wouldn't be distracted by the line of his jaw or by the beat of his heart next to hers. "Jon?"

Jon presses a gentle kiss into her hair. "Ssshhhh, let me have this." Sansa can't resist the comforting sway of them pressed together and lays her head against his.

Sansa groans as she wakes, her head aching. Sunlight fills her room and she winced at the bright light. Ghost is at the foot of her bed and she drags herself into a seated position. Nudging him with her foot he raises his head to gaze back at her. "Hey, boy."

Most of her night is a blur after dinner. Talking with Arya, dancing around the hall, and drinking a lot of ale. The last thing Sansa remembers is Jon swaying with her as the world spun around, muffled voices that she can't quite distinguish with her pulsing head. Groaning again, Sansa falls back into bed wishing the world would just leave her be.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa lets her hand linger on the spines of the books in their library. The room glows from the dim light of the fireplace. “We can never repay you for all you’ve done for us, for this cause..”

Red spills across Samwell Tarly’s face. “I consider Jon my brother, there are no debts between family."

Sansa's eyebrows shoot up. "Now that is a noble thought."

The blush lingers on Sam's face, "I don't have a lot left in this world, I'm striving to keep what I can."

"Smart." Sansa moves closer to him and takes his hand considering her words. "I loathe to bring it up but I've heard of your family...."

Anger darkens his eyes, "Yes."

"I like the thought of no debts between us, Samwell. Anything you need, be it transport back to your mother and sister or anything at all I'll do my best to see it done.."

"Thank you, my lady."

"And…" A long pause draws out and Sansa squeezes his hand drawing a careful breath, her eyes cast down. "I would never say I know how you feel right now, we each carry pain that is ours alone. I have felt the hardship of loss in times like these though, trying to justify that it is just your own personal cost of the wars we wage. I will say I know what it is like to be a parentless child. I know what it's like to have a sibling die and all the futures you saw for them perish alongside. So if ever you should wish to talk, I'm here."

Sansa was met with surprised eyes as she raised her own. Eyes shaded by grief. "That is too kind, my lady."

"Call me Sansa, please."

"Then you must call me Sam."

Sansa gestures to a nearby bench. “Let us sit, tell me of your family. How old is your son now?"

Sam's face broke into a wide grin and she can't help but mirror it. There is a troubled light that never leaves his eyes though, even as they descend into talk of lighter subjects.

The days grow shorter and shorter. War meetings are a daily occurence, sometimes more than once a day. Tokens on a map shuffled about as if it would all make sense if you just moved it the right way. There is a tension she carried with her now, forever prepared for a blow that refused to come. 

“Lady Sansa,” a voice calls.

Sansa stops in her long stride and turns in place. She can’t help the surprised look when she sees Missandei, the woman was a constant companion to Daenerys and involved with the leader of the Unsullied. From what she heard Missandei was gifted with languages. Sansa had little interaction with her, with the company she kept any conversation could be a dangerous one to have.

“Missandei.” Sansa greets.

Slightly out of breath Missandei catches up to her. “You are difficult to get an audience with.”

Sansa sighs, she barely has time to sleep these days. The dead creeping ever closer, Bran’s eyes were almost constantly clouded over as he warged into various ravens and woodland creatures in an effort to track the movements of the encroaching army. Sansa had pulled both Meera and Bran indoors many times after finding them with blue tinged lips. Wintertown residents were coming with more and more complaints of conflicts in town. With so many differing parties: Unsullied, Dothraki, Free Folk, Northerners and more conflicts were unavoidable.

“Walk with me?”

“Of course,” Missandei nodded. “Where are we going?”

“To the glass gardens. Bren wishes to discuss the progress of the crops.”

"What crops are you hoping to grow?"

"Turnips, carrots, grain. Some will grow fast, others we can store. Do you know anything of gardening?"

"Oh, no. I was born on an island and then lived mostly in the desert." Missandei keeps up with her long strides easily. “Are they coming along well?”

Sansa nods, “They’re coming along at the very least. I’m hoping they aren’t too damaged in the coming battle. With so many people here we are going through our supplies at a rapid pace.”

Missandei hums an agreement. “Daenerys has brought very large armies to the fight here.”

Sansa resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Two very large armies, two very large dragons that eat ‘whatever they want’. I’m not unaware of their purpose here, but I’m trying to look beyond the now. When...if we survive this I have thousands of people that need to make it through the winter.”

A slight blush steals across her face. “Of course.”

“What was it you wished to speak of?” Sansa asked as they approached the glass structure. Two guards were positioned outside of it both of them bowing their heads as she passed.

“Guards?” Missandei questioned as the entered the gardens.

Sansa raises her eyebrows at the avoided question. “Yes, the people are hungry. If letting others starve would feed their families many would do it without hesitation.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t blame them, it’s human nature to survive. Still I would wish to see them all fed. If us all going to bed a little hungry will see us through then I’ll see it done.” Sansa laughed darkly. "That is not a thought that all the Northern lords agree with."

Missandei gazed around the gardens. It was warmer inside and her cheeks flushed at the temperature change. A clinging dampness was present within the walls. Sansa’s eyes settled on sprouting greens laid out in rows and a smile lit her face as she bent down to run a gentle finger along a small leaf. A shout drew her to her feet and her gaze caught Bren’s. “Bren!” she greeted.

“Lady Stark.”

“Sansa, I’ve told you.”

Bren’s face wrinkled as he grinned. “So you have, Lady Stark.”

Sansa huffs at his response and gestures behind her. “This is Missandei, she is an occupant of Winterfell as well these days.”

Reaching out he grasps her hand. “There’s so many of us now.”

Missandei smiles warmly at him, “There are.”

“Warm walls and a warm meal, what more could we wish for.” Bren ponders. “I like us all packed in together. Children running about. Couples flirting in dark corners. So much life before what is coming.”

Sansa feels her heart tighten at the statement. “To see the great hall filled is a pleasure, to be sure.”

Missandei’s eyes linger on her face and Sansa keeps it blank. Bren clears his throat as the moment of silence lingers. “I wished to show you our progress. I'm hoping to have some harvest within a month or two”

“It looks amazing,” Sansa comments. “I can’t believe what you have done in such a short amount of time.”

“Thank you, my lady. Between the structure and the hot springs the plants may fight it but they can’t help but grow.”

Sansa nods and takes a slow spin as she took in the structure, panes fit within molded metal. “At the end of this I hope we can continue this, building more of these across the North. At the very least share the blueprints and your results. I hope you will help me with that, Bren.”

Bren's eyes are surprised but he grins widely at the thought of it. “I serve at your pleasure, my lady.”

Sansa smiles letting the moment of accomplishment linger. “Then a great partnership it will be. I’ll check back in, Bren, and leave you to your work.”

“Of course.” Sansa nods before turning and walking from the gardens, Missandei a persistent presence at her heels.

“Reading the history of winters this far North I can’t help but prepare for the inevitability that we are snowed in and starved up here.”

“When Daenerys takes her throne-”

Sansa cuts her off, “Will she fly us supplies on her dragon? There are things that she cannot do, that she will not be able to do while ruling over seven kingdoms.” Missandei’s lips pursed, Sansa considers her and then hums. “You’re brilliant as far as I have heard yet I rarely hear you speak, especially when your love of language far precedes you..”

“I serve my queen.”

“You have and for quite awhile at that," Sansa acknowledges. "You must have some insights. I’ve been to a dozen war meetings as of late, you haven’t attended any. You were there when she claimed Mereen and Slaver's Bay.”

Missandei’s jaw clenched. “Freed them, you mean.”

“Of course,” Sansa comments.

“The queen knows if she has need of me, I am here. I’ve been busy maintaining relations between the many differing groups that are staying here. Yet Daenerys values all of our opinions, those of all groups and of all kinds. If you knew the lives she saved.”

“I’ve heard many stories, not all with happy outcomes.”

“Stories are told of you as well, Lady Stark.”

“Some are true, I am sure.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Missandei’s gaze is cutting. “Smiling through a wedding before feeding him to the dogs.”

Sansa feels her eyes narrow. “Like I said, some are true.”

“She freed thousands of slaves.” Missandei bites out defensively.

“I am sure there are countless lives that are better for having known her. I fear that her history of ruling has left me underwhelmed. Taking a city by force and sitting atop it with a dragon soaring overhead and still rebellion answered her.”

“A rebellion led by slave owners.”

"Perhaps some but I doubt all of them were angry slave owners. Perhaps some were ordinary men, who faltered at the sight of a foreign queen who knew nothing of them sitting herself atop a temple and calling herself their savior."

"She came here to save you, didn't she?" Missandei countered.

“In a way. Burning Cersei alive and adding another title to her name won't make her a good queen." Sansa sighed, arguing with Missandei was no use to anyone. "I apologize, I do not wish to antagonize. There were many times in my life when they act of one good person saved me from further suffering. Now was there actually something you needed to speak with me about or did you just wish to sell me on the merits of Queen Daenerys?”

Missandei flushes, her eyes still hard with before biting out, “A sickness has spread through the ranks of Daenenrys’ army. Our healers are overwhelmed and undersupplied.” There is a measured moment and Missandei's eyes fall closed as she sighed. "Any help would be much appreciated."

Sansa vividly recalls huddling in tents strewn across the North as they lobbied to take back her home. A bitter cold that would howl at night and one that was not nearly as cutting as these winter days had come to be. “The cold is something you can never truly be ready for. I will tell Maester Wolkan to make available any resources he can.” Sansa makes to turn away but is stopped by an intrusive thought and looks back. “Who noticed the sickness spreading and knew you needed help, you or Daenerys?” Sansa’s eyes fall to the clenched fist by Missandei’s side before meeting her eyes. It’s all the answer she needs.

Sansa takes a turn towards the Godswood, a few steps in Ghost appears a silent presence by her side. If she didn't know any better she would think him his namesake, a silent being that materialized from shadowed corners whenever she walked alone. Her hand easily falls to his head as they walk. "And where have you been? Off hunting?" Ghost pads silently beside her as she heads toward the weirwood tree, thankful that Bran is not there at the moment.

Snow layers the ground, the days no longer melting it away with midday sun. Sansa still settles among the roots, the layers of her clothing giving her protection. Ghost edges close to her his chin coming to rest upon her knee as he finds a place beside her. Sansa’s nails find the crook of his ear scratching them as a deep rumble escapes his chest. 

“I fear I find myself without many friends these days.” Sansa is surrounded by ambitious people. As a girl Sansa thought everyone a friend, her smiles were easy and she believed every word spoke a reflection of the trueness of their soul. It has been a hard habit to break, one that had nearly broke her in turn. She looks down into the red eyes of Ghost and wonders if he feels the same. A world without many direwolves even in the North, most of his siblings struck down in the name of war, was he lonely? It wasn’t the same was it, being a wolf among others?

Looking at Ghost now Jon is not far from her mind. Sansa’s head told her to be smart and cautious, to be careful because he wasn’t fighting for her any longer. Still at the root of everything is the feeling she had at Castle Black. As if she had been drowning, for so long and so slowly she didn’t even know. Then seeing him there suddenly was air, a sweet agonizing breath of relief. That simple feeling had twisted and tangled as time went on. Still when she looked at him, her first feeling was a steady rhythm of hazy comfort.

Sansa didn’t forgive Jon, Jon didn’t ever ask for forgiveness. That felt worse in a way, the lack of thought to what his actions had done to her. Sansa had begged long ago for the life of her father and was met with blood stained stone. Sansa no longer begged and now no one asked her what she needed. Sansa was calm and cold, she may argue but she never really breaks. Let’s bet on the fact that she will bend and bend as we move the world around her.

Some days longing and betrayal warred within her until she felt like a bloody mess at the end of the day. Sansa had spent nights fighting the dark desires to lash out at the world, to make it as bloody as she felt inside. A desire she had indulged before, a satisfaction as dogs tore Ramsay Bolton asunder and the sweet silence when they finally faded. Look, look how I can rage and ruin. The world was bloody enough and these thoughts had no place in her current circumstances no matter the satisfaction of seeing the chaos she could cause.

Sansa tilted her head back, resting against the tangled trunk of the tree behind her. A stalwart companion to her troubled mind. How often did her father sit amongst these roots talking to his gods? Sansa’s belief of the gods was complicated. Often falling back on her mother’s Faith of the Seven as a child, a peaceful comfort found in the septs her father built for Catelyn. The Old Gods, ever watchful from the Godswood, unsettled her. It never failed to make her feel as if she was falling. A breathy weightlessness tinged with fear as she walked grounds thick with history. Magic was no longer the things of stories, dragons roared again and men rose from the dead. Yet as hard as Sansa looked she could not see the will of the gods in the actions of men.

The hard press of the tree comforts her. Sansa wishes to be like it, rooted to the ground bowed but not broken through the shifts of time. One of her hands drops to a root shooting far below into the ground. Please, she silently begs, if we are to perish let it be me. Take me and spare the others. Sansa holds her breath for a long minute, looking above her. It almost feels like a taunt as no whispered wind rustles the leaves. No sudden watchful raven lands on a branch above her. Silence reigns around her and Sansa feels as damned as she did when she first walked in the Godswood.

Any lingering thoughts of making it out of the war unscathed dies with Lord Umber’s screaming corpse. Sansa can’t shake the vision of it, his small body nailed to a wall. They no longer have time for research and strategizing, if they don’t have a solid plan now then all is lost. The foggy timeline snapping into startling clarity.

“We have no chance against a million dead head on, we need to be smarter than them.”

“How do you ambush a never sleeping army?” Tyrion asks.

“The Night King raised the dead. He falls, they fall along with him.” Jon states staring hard at the map laid out before them.

“He’ll come for me. He’s tried before, with many three eyed ravens.” Bran states. The level voice seeming to cut through a room, no matter how loud it was.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“We’re connected him and I. The past lives on through me. I know how he was made. I know who he was. As long as I live, he is never truly free.”

“You’ll be placed in the safest place, the crypts, while we draw him out. The dead are little more than bones there and entombed in stone. It’s a risk, but one we’ll have to take.”

“No, I’ll wait for him in the Godswood. He’ll seek me out. Too long and the dead will destroy us all.”

“You wish us to use you as bait?” Sansa exclaimed.

“We’re not leaving you alone.” Arya agrees.

“He won’t be.” Sansa turns toward the voice, it’s Theon. “I’ll stay with him, with the Iron Born. I took this castle from you, let me defend you now.”

Sansa has a softness for Theon, a tainted thing that felt like fingers digging into a bruise. A tender spot, a purple stain blooming on their past. Bran nods at the statement, though, a measured agreement. Sansa tilts her head considering the map. It all seemed so simple with Winterfell laid out before her, a battle to be won. Pieces on a board that are easily moved and repositioned. 

Trenches half a mile out were ready to be lit in hopes of taking out a chunk of the dead as they tried to cross it. Trebuchets targeting any large groups that broke through the line of fire. Unsullied moving between the two ready to retreat or advance depending on the situation. Dothraki lay in wait as a last wave of overwhelming force to close in on those breaking through the gates of Winterfell. The walls of Winterfell of lined with archers, backed by swordsmen and close fighters for corpses that made it atop the wall. Kill them quickly, then retreat behind the protection of the walls and make them work for it.

“Davos will give the signal to light the trenches. Tyrion you’ll be in the crypts.” Daenerys states.

“My lady, I have fought before-”

“There are thousands here that can fight. I have you here for your mind, not your fighting skills. If we survive this then I will need it.”

Tyrion looks unhappy but eventually nods in agreement. The plan made sense. She could almost see it working if there wasn’t a dragon soaring over their heads. “The dragon needs to be killed or none of this matters. We can’t use Winterfell’s walls to our advantage if he brings them down. Bran sits in the Godswood? The Night King can just fly over the damned wall.”

Jon looks over at her, his eyes slightly wide at her choice of words. “Daenerys and I will try to take him out, as far from Winterfell as we can." His eyes settle on Daenerys as he speaks the words, she is visibly unsettled at the thought. Sansa has heard her speak of her dragons, claiming to be their mother. Though she looks uneasy she nods in response. "Hopefully we can avoid too much damage to Winterfell and our own forces.”

Bran’s voice sounds, effectively ending the gathering. “We should all rest, the battle will come soon enough.”

The group begins to slowly disperse and Sansa can’t help but placing a lingering hand on Bran’s shoulder, he gives her a hollow smile and Sansa is unsure of why she had hoped for. Arya follows her out, looking quickly around them for eavesdroppers. “So I noticed no one ever said where you would be.”

Sansa flexes her fingers, an anxious energy thrumming through her veins. “Good, no one will be waiting for me then.”

Arya’s eyebrows raise. “You know Jon will want you in the crypts.”

“He would.”

“Where were you hoping to be? Out front with the Unsullied?”

“Of course not. I’m not sure yet where I will be.”

Arya stops in place staring at her with worried eyes, “Sansa you need to stay protected.”

“Mmmm.” Sansa hums without agreeing.

“What does that mean?”

“Arya, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out, you won't need to worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.” Arya states definitively, her face gets more and more pensive. “I don’t like the way that this conversation is going.”

Sansa shoots her an exasperated look, “Then let’s not have it at all.”

Trying to outpace Arya she is stopped by an arm pulling her into an empty room. Sansa yanked her arm out of Arya’s grasp, her pulse skyrocketing at the unexpected touch. ”I’m sorry.” Arya says holding her hands clearly away from Sansa. “I just want you to be safe.”

“Nowhere is safe, Arya. I won’t be-” Sansa cuts herself off, heart still pounding in her ears. 

“What?” Arya ask pleadingly.

Sansa doesn’t want to put breath into the words, as if once they are out there they are more likely to come true. A creeping fear that she had not been able to shake since her brother was shot down before her, body trampled into mud outside of Winterfell. “I won’t be the last Stark alive, Arya.”

“Sansa…”

“Arya I barely survived knowing there was a possibility that you all were out there.”

"What then? We perish and you throw yourself off the nearest tower?"

Sansa saw herself peacefully sipping poisoned wine while sinking beneath waters in the Godswood, but that was a thought she would not share. The horror in Arya's eyes was judgement enough. It wasn't a new thought. Sansa wasn't suicidal and the thought didn't crop enough to worry her, yet it was always a possible path, a final option of departing on her terms. 

Sometimes it seemed a logical end, the Starks dying as a pack. A last generation, oh the stories they would sing. All of them in one fell swoop, so many family lines had met the same bitter end in recent years. It felt like a betrayal to the North to even think it, but could she go on alone? Surely they would understand. Sansa had paid her dues tenfold over.

"Sansa!" Arya's voice startled her out of her musings and Sansa shook herself of her spiraling thoughts. “You’re worrying me.”

"Arya, no matter the outcome you needn't worry about me. I may not wield a sword but I have protected myself plenty.”

“It’s not the same.” Arya’s eyes were dark. Sansa wondered whether her mind lingered on past or future, what scenes were playing out in her head.

“Again, I will be fine. Speaking of I asked your...friend...” Sansa bit back a smile at the indignant flush on Arya’s face as Sansa drew out the word. “...to make me a dagger, now is as good a time as any to have protection for myself. Would you look into the progress for me? I know how busy they are in the forges.”

“Gendry is...Gendry.” Sansa can feel her eyebrows climb up as Arya awkwardly fumbled with her words. Arya’s defensively stiffened. “You know what? I will go check on that.”

Sansa nods a smile playing at her mouth as Arya walks away. Before she loses sight of her Sansa calls after her, “Arya!”

Arya turns towards her and takes a couple of steps closer. “Yes?”

Sansa sobers, a seriousness to her words. “I wouldn’t blame you if you left.” Arya froze, a startled look upon her face. “When we were separated…” Sansa fights the tears that suddenly sting her eyes. “I always wished you were safe and happy. Maybe tucked away in some small town. An owner of an inn, keeping rowdy men in line with your quick words and an even quicker blade.” Sansa’s face twists in a sudden grief, her words breaking. “You could leave, be free. I promise not to chase you. I’ve seen what you can do, you could be anyone.”

“Sansa…” Arya grins, a sad smile. “I have been many things in this life. Everything I am leads me here, to Winterfell. I would be honored to die fighting here.”

Sansa nods, accepting the finality of the statement. Arya rounds the corner and Sansa is drawn to a small gap of a window in the room they lingered by. The room was sparse, chair pulled to an unlit hearth. Finding her way to the window she takes a deep breath, the cold air seeming to steady her. As if the cold rushes through her veins making her stand taller and fiercer.

“Lady Sansa.”

Facing away she lets her eyes fall closed as Tyrion’s voice cuts through her moment’s peace. “Yes, Tyrion?”

Sansa tilted her head steeling herself and turned. Tyrion leaned in the doorway, hands held behind his back. “We have had few moments to talk.”

For a reason, Sansa thinks to herself. “There is not much to speak of.”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed. “Somehow I feel as if we are on opposite sides here.”

“Of the war with the dead?” Sansa keeps her face calm, lets her eyes stay wide and clear. Lannisters often liked when doe eyed innocent Sansa looked back at them.

A chuckle escaped him. “Of the war for the Iron Throne.”

“I have no wish for the Iron Throne.” Sansa comments.

“Yet I sense friction with our Queen.” Tyrion’s words hold the clever edge they always do, as if hunting out the solution to a problem.

“Your queen.” Sansa corrected.

Tyrion’s hands drop to his sides as he sighed. “Sansa, I know it’s difficult to understand...”

“Not too difficult. I’m not sure you had much choice in the matter.” Sansa watches his face carefully.

“I chose Daenerys Targaryen. I don’t believe in much but I believe in her.” Tyrion’s voice stiffened along with his posture, an indignant huff in his words.

“You chose her? The voices she surrounds herself with are very interesting. A man who was exiled for selling people into slavery. Another who smuggled an accused murderer out of King’s Landing. Then there’s you.” Sansa shakes her head, watching as his eyes glint in the dim light barely catching sun from the window.

“And who am I, Sansa Stark?”

Sansa almost falters at the deadly edge to his voice yet uses it to spur her on. Tyrion’s chin tilts down, shadows playing about his face adding a malevolent air to him. Sansa briefly wonders at the dramatics of Lannisters, the way they played a room around them. Sansa had heard the talk of his hurried escape from King’s Landing, looking into the matter had led her to unsettling conclusions. “I used to think you were so kind, Tyrion.”

“There are things you don’t understand.”

“I have defended you so many times.” Sansa’s eyes fall closed for a moment before the question escapes her. “I don’t believe you killed Joffrey...did you kill Shae?”

Tyrion's eyes are surprised and then immediately shuttered. “If you knew-”

“Stop.” Sansa can feel tears sting her eyes, until this moment she had almost convinced herself it was not true. Tyrion killing his father as he fled the castle, a body of one of servants found, a casualty caught up in the fray. Sansa’s mind dredged up memories of lingering fraught glances between Shae and Tyrion, a fleeting thought that she was missing something. “I care not for your excuses.”

“I was on trial for murder! The things she said about me, about you Sansa!” His eyes were alight with anger, pleading for sympathy.

“I don’t care!” Sansa shouts, a hand brought close to her chest. She hurriedly sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she tries to calm herself. “If you knew all the times I have lied for survival. Yet I still suffered greatly for the actions of those around me and I am in a far more privileged position than she ever was.”

“Shae lied,” Tyrion states plainly. “And I was going to die for it.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Don’t spin a story for me. You were free, you were walking away from the city and you chose to leave bodies in your wake.”

“After finding her in my father’s bed.” Disgust curled his lips.

“Oh, how dare she.” Sansa replied with sarcasm edging her words. “How dare she taint what was so clearly yours to claim.'

“You don’t get to tell me-”

“She was the one good thing about that place. Shae was the only friend I had there.”

Tyrion’s eyes were tortured and Sansa hated him for it. How could he take Shae from this world? Shae who had fiercely protected Sansa, who had held her when she cried. Shae who had wiped blood from her back. Sansa hated that time wore away the edges of her memories, only recalling wide dark eyes, curling hair, and an accented voice comforting her. "She meant far more to me and what I had to do pained me," Tyrion finally states.

Sansa nods, more to herself than to him. “Yet I can’t forgive you for it. I used to find comfort in the pains of my past. Littlefinger, you, the Hound. I liked to trace our paths, the way they swayed as they would come together and then part again.” Sansa wonders aloud. “It was a reminder of who I was, what I went through. I know now that I need no reminder, I don’t need to talk to you to justify the pain I still carry with me from King’s Landing. I don’t need your voice telling me of our shared experiences, the memories I carry are more than enough. Walking these halls, sitting in the Godswood, my family...they are all I need these days to tell me who I am.”

“I wish I had such comforts to surround myself with.” Tyrion’s words were kind but his voice was tinged with a brewing anger. Sansa strode toward the door, these moments wasted when she knew the battle that was to come tomorrow.

Sansa pauses beside him as she nears the doorway. “This is why we don’t talk Tyrion. We know each other far too well. So before you finish congratulating yourself on playing the game, remember that I know you. You are not some faithful advisor to a queen you adore. It’s one of the only options you have left...a good one though, I’ll grant you that.”

"Yes, Sansa. I fear we all are judged by what we serve in the end. You should consider that, it seems these days you mostly serve yourself." Sansa bites her tongue and walks out the door, all the way she feels his gaze digging into her back.

Sansa finds herself on one of the tall walkways looking down at a busy courtyard. Her eyes rest on Jon and Daenerys pressed close behind a cart. Daenerys looks at him with wide begging eyes, both of them talking fast with hands gesturing. Sansa wishes she could overhear the words, it ends as Jon cups her hands in his own holding them to his chest. Daenerys vehemently shakes her head, silver hair rustling. Jon takes a step away from as Daenerys throws her hair over her shoulder striding away. The confidence of a woman who knew she could burn the world before her.

There's a burning pit deep in her stomach. A jealousy she cannot shake at the sight of them together. Sansa wished she was still in the practice of lying to herself, she could tell herself that the root of it was the power wielded by the violet-eyed Targeryan. She knew differently though. It was the fact that Jon had touched her. It taunted her, the image of them pressed together. A smile shared between them, one that was only shared between lovers. A smile that spoke of gentle touches and hushed voices in the dead of night.

Jon looks up and locks eyes with Sansa despite the distance. Sansa breaks the gaze and turns to stride down the walkway. She can hear him stomping up a nearby staircase as Jon hurries to catch up to her. “Sansa, I've looked for you.” he breathes out. “Have you eaten?”

Sansa flushes, still caught in her previous thoughts. “I’ve actually just come from checking in on the kitchens. I may have had a few bites while down there, the cooks indulge me.”

“Ah,” Jon chuckled. “Smart and then you get to avoid all these men lording about. Where are you headed now?”

“My solar. I had hope to catch up on my missives. I fear there won’t be much time in the coming days.”

“May I accompany you?”

Sansa is surprised, surely he had more to attend to than even she did. Clipped tones at the war meeting came back to her, troubled face down below her. “Things are tense between you and Daenerys.”

Jon's eyes dart backward as if Daenerys will pop around the corner at any moment. “Things are...complicated.”

Sansa does not slow her stride, she will not complain at her company. “There isn’t much time to uncomplicate things.”

“I know, that’s why I’m with you.”

Sansa stumbles over her own feet looking over at Jon incredulously. What did that mean? “I...that’s…what?”

Jon looks back at her with calm eyes before gesturing back toward the solar they were quick approaching. “Are we going in?”

“To-Jon.” Sansa sternly looked at him.

He arched a brow mirroring her expression. “Sansa.”

Was this a waiting confrontation? Did she cross a line the night after the feast? Her memories were still hazy, all she remembered was the beating of Jon's heart and a gentle swaying. She doesn't remember. She’ll save her excuses until she had something to rebut. “Just..follow me.”

Jon obediently follows her. “I heard you were arguing with Missandei.”

“We weren’t arguing...disagreeing, maybe.” Sansa is glad her confrontation with Tyrion hadn't spread, that was a much more contentious meeting.

“There’s a difference?’”

Sansa’s lips curve. “Subtle, but yes there is a difference.”

“Why haven’t you shown me the glass gardens?” Jon asks a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve been busy.” Sansa comments. Jon had been flying dragons and meeting with queens. Bargaining their home and making pledges Welcoming returning friends who were fleeing to Winterfell. 

Though keeping stride with her Jon stares at her pensive gaze catching on her as it so often did. “I’m not too busy for you, Sansa.”

Sansa laughs quietly at the lie. “Jon, we can save this conversation for when you actually aren’t busy fighting an army of undead. I will show you all the crops and flowers you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” They entered her solar, light streaming through the windows. The room was pleasantly cluttered, papers marking the pages of books.

“I’m hoping Arya will be up soon, she’s been checking in at the forge.”

“The forge?”

“Oh, yes.” Sansa sees his tense face and revels in her next statement. “I fear Arya may have a crush."

"Arya. Our s-our Arya?" His gaze is affronted, as if this is the deepest of insults.

Sansa looks at him strangely as he stumbles over the words. "Yes, our Arya. She may be short Jon but I assure you she's almost fully grown."

Jon groans at the thought. "Don't tell me that.” Snorting Sansa lifts a few of the papers at her desks but she is distracted by his dark gaze lingering on her face. “Sansa.”

“Yes, Jon?”

“Why didn’t you tell me of Littlefinger?”

Sansa pauses, caught off guard. All the things he could have confronted her about this was not the one she expected. “There was no need. The matter was taken care of by the time you returned.”

“Haven’t we agreed to talk to one another about these things?”

“You weren’t here to talk to.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t.” Jon’s voice was earnest. It was the voice that always seems to cut through her, that genuine edge.

Lips pursing, Sansa looks briefly at her hands half expecting to still see blood. “It needed to be done.”

“Sometimes those are the hardest things of all.”

Sansa sat down her papers, returning them to rest with the dozens of others on her desk. She curses the urge to explain herself. “So many call me cold-hearted these days.” Sansa’s throat thickens and bites the inside of her cheeks in an effort to fight back emotion. “I just-” Tears well in her eyes. “I feel so much all the time, I become numb with it. If dwell on any one moment I feel as if I will drown and never surface.”

Jon’s eyes never leave her face. “Sansa, that’s not…” He sighs and she feels the hot burn of shame, her chest contracting as she tenses, she should have held her tongue. It was far too late to speak of such feelings as the dead were less than a hard day’s ride away. “There are no easy paths here. The ones we came from or the ones that we choose now.”

Sansa looks down, ignoring a single tear that tracks down her cheek. She does not know what she thought he would say. That he too felt pulled by the sorrows they have known, that some days he felt as if the air itself was fighting against him. Jon was rooted in the present in a way that she had tried and failed to be. “You don’t speak of the future, Jon.”

“I fear to even think of the future.” Jon’s jaw is tense. “If I linger on it I will not be able to do my duties now.”

“Hardly anyone speaks of it and all I can think of are food stores, furs for the harsh winter to come, shifting trade routes…my brain is so loud I cannot rest.” Jon’s gaze shifts away from her and Sansa feels unmoored without his gaze pinning her in place. “You think me silly.”

Jon’s eyes shut, his brow furrowed. “No, I think you far braver than I.”

Sansa has the strange urge to tell him, just reach out and see if he reached back. How do you tell someone that? Someone whose blood is far too similar to her own to be appropriate. What would she lose with the words that left her mouth? The North? Her siblings? Sansa wondered what had twisted inside of her to birth such twisted desires. Her desire to tell him of her wish to trace his mouth with her finger, to feel her heart beat in time with his own as they shared each other’s warmth.

Taking the moment to watch his face Sansa let herself think of it. Jon’s dark features pressed against her own. Sansa had been gracelessly kissed few times in her life but the stories that were told of it, of true passion...would her heart race with want? Would he hold her so tightly that she would feel planted to the ground beneath her? Sansa’s hand reached up, a strand of hair wrapping around two fingers. Did he ever look at her like she did him? Finding a damning beauty in the features before them.

Sansa imagined it truly, the way his features would twist with disgust as he pushed her away. Worse a sympathetic frown, letting her know that he forgave her, that he knew she had been tainted from her past. Jon stepping away from her, gently consoling her. Telling her of the love he had found, a comfort he hopes for her some future day. He had a queen who was beautiful, as light as Jon was dark. A perfect contrast, an unscarred counterpart to Jon’s battle hardened body. Sansa’s hand drifted from her hair to the top of her shoulder and she swore she could feel the scars even through her heavy dress, she was ruined.

Jon’s eyes were still closed, a calmness about him as her mind raged. “I’m just tired Sansa.”

A knock sounded at the door startling her from her thoughts, “It’s me.” Arya’s face peaked within the room as she opened the door, her eyes automatically meeting Sansa’s and she was loathe to think of what Arya saw. Jon beckoned Arya inside and Sansa ignored the pang at the easy grin that lights his face. Sansa arched a brow, “I thought I would see you far sooner.”

“Well, there were things I needed to do.” Arya drawled.

“Or people.” Sansa muttered under her breath.

Jon’s horrified eyes darted to hers and then back to Arya. “What?!”

Arya snorted. “Oh, come off it, like you haven’t had a woman or two.”

“It’s different!”

“Oh please, grow up.” 

Jon’s hands are thrown in the air in exasperation. “You have no worries about this?” Jon questions Sansa.

“The world is ending Jon, I’m not worried about where Arya chooses to spend her nights.”

Arya’s body is stiff as she rounds Sansa’s desk. “I do have your dagger.” 

Arya presents Sansa with a sheath of simple leather. Pulling the blade from it Sansa’s eyes widen in appreciation. It’s valyrian steel, Sansa had begged and bartered for remnants of the metal to make the blade. A small spiteful part had wanted to rip the swords from Brienne and Jamie Lannister’s hands, the ruin of the blade her father wielded expertly. Brienne had more than earned the blade with her protection of Sansa, so she fought to shake herself of the urge. The dagger is sharp and the sheen of it unmistakable. The hilt, however, was surprisingly delicate. Carved of wood the face of a direwolf stared back at her. The fur of the wolf tapering into small leaves as it smoothed into a handhold. “How did he-?”

“You have a lot of people here, idle hands and all that. There had to be one or two talented artists in the bunch.”

“This is beautiful.” Sansa grasped the hilt, gaining a feel for her new blade.

Arya looks at her seriously. “And deadly. If you have need of it be sure it strikes true. Go for the neck, you’re bound to hit something vital.”

Nodding Sansa sheathed the blade once again. She fingers the long leather fastenings attached and wonders where she shall place it upon her body. Jon is watching the exchange, eyes darting between them. HIs head tilts for a moment considering before focusing on Arya. “I’ve heard of your sparring with Brienne, would you like to help me out with some practice?”

Arya’s face lights as if she can already imagine Jon on his back in the mud. “Of course.” Jon rises, heading to the door. They are complementary images of one another. Arya looks over her shoulder. “Are you coming to watch?”

Sansa holds a nearby paper up between two fingers. “I would but I have missives to catch up on. Though I’m sure it will be a sight to see.”

Arya nods before jogging a couple steps to catch up with Jon who has already strode through the door. Sansa tries to not let it sting that he doesn’t spare a glance back toward her. Was that his only complication, her unapproved killing of Lord Baelish? To use this moment to speak of a decision made and moved past doesn't sit well with Sansa.

Sansa feels foolish for the way her heart had raced when he talked of complicated things. She would have taken many things, a few tokens of affection. Him coming to her asking for closure, for comfort that they were still of the same mind. That after it all she was still known, her true heart that felt bruised at the ferocity of its beat within her. As if he would speak to her of his plans for the North, for the future of Winterfell and for them. That was no longer a future they shared. Looking down Sansa forced herself to invest in the long rambling letter before her. It would be a long night.

Sansa wakes sweating. For a moment she is unsure of what is happening, her legs pinned and a sharp pain in her back. Looking down she sees a short leg thrown over her own and she recognizes it as Arya behind her. Arya's knee digging into her spine, she can hear the wheezing breaths of Bran on her other side. A mass of white fur below her, Ghost sprawled at the foot of the bed. Jon and her are face to face, him claiming the edge of the bed. The packed together bodies are throwing off waves of heat, the bed not made to fit four bodies and a direwolf.

Sansa brushes the hair away from her face and she shifts trying to get more comfortable. She meets Jon’s eyes as she nudges him while moving. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s fine,” his voice is gravely. Looking beyond him she sees the sky is still dark. Sansa isn’t sure how much that is worth considering the promised endless darkness to come but she refuses to believe that time is up.

Sleep had not come easy for her. Sansa had wandered the halls for too long checking on their stores, on the sick beds they had prepared, stacks of wood lining halls for if they must close and bar the doors. She had eventually made her way to Bran’s chambers. Jon had already been on his bed keeping him company, the two of them discussing some paper between them. Sansa had not fought the urge to curl up alongside them. Tired and wordlessly kicking off her shoes she made herself comfortable. She must have fallen asleep, waking just now with Arya having crawled in bed with them at some point.

Jon’s eyes were still open, blinking the sleep from them. “Sleep,” Sansa urged.

He was slow to respond. “Sansa.”

It was a tone of voice that never failed to make her heart race, her stomach drop to her knees as anxiety rose. Sansa choked down a strange rush of words that wanted to escape to fill the quiet moment. “Hmm?” she questioned, her throat thick.

Jon’s eyes were conflicted as if fighting against himself. “When…” he trailed off, a hand raising up and a finger tracing along her nose, to her eyebrow and beyond tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His voice was rough and low. “When I try to think of the future...all I see is you.”

Sansa feels her heart stop and her lips part. “You think of me?”

A wry smile twists his mouth. “Always.”

Jon can’t...Jon can’t think of her like she thinks of him. Sansa’s heart is a thrumming beat that she worries echoes in the room. Jon’s hand is a comforting weight against her neck and Sansa reaches up to grasp it within her own wiggling inches closer to him. “I think of you far too much.” Sansa whispers the words, the confession feeling as if it is ripped from her.

Dark eyes watch her own and she wonders at what he sees. Fingers tangling, Jon lets out a long breath with his eyes caught on their entwined hands. “I....there are things we need to speak of...later”

Oh, it felt as if the breath was knocked from her. This moment, a cocoon of darkness and warmth, would not be the salvation or ruin she wondered of. Sansa clears her throat, suddenly too aware of Arya and Bran. Painting a small smile on her face Sansa makes to pull her hand away from his as she nods. “Okay.”

Jon’s grip tightened, not letting her go. “It’s not-” They both quiet as Arya shifts behind Sansa. “You deserve so much, Sansa.”

The words wound her far more than they should. Whenever they are spoken Sansa is set apart, reserved for some unseeable future where things make sense and we get what we deserve. Sansa doesn’t deserve it, she knows. She thinks of growing up, giggled chases in the courtyard and raucous feasts in the hall. It isn't hers anymore, between lies told and blood spilled she doesn't deserve any of it. Sansa had lost that in her long journey back home. Sansa doesn’t think there is a future where she watches children run about a hall, hurried tutors chasing them down, a husband who hugs her so fiercely that her very body leaves the floor. Every glimpse of that future dissolved like snow.

Sansa doesn’t meet Jon’s gaze, letting the moment drag on. “We should sleep, Jon.”

Jon finally releases her hand but brings his up to grasp the back of her neck and pull her toward him. He pressed their foreheads together and her lips part at the contact to draw in a gasping breath. “Wherever we go next, Sansa…”

Sansa's breath leaves her body in a long sigh. The words were a comfort she had been aching for since he had returned. “We go together.” Above all else was this, their family and their future. She tries to glimpse his eyes but they are closed. Sansa hums quietly giving into the moment and closes hers as well. 

Sleep pulls at her, her head finding a place settled into the crook of his neck with his hand still tangled among the roots of her hair. Sansa can hear his heartbeat beside her. Her family an overlapping symphony of sound that surrounds her. The night is quiet, dark and blanketed by snow. In this space is a small haven of comfort that feels hallowed and holy. Sansa feels closer to the gods than she has ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter fought me. I had to push some scenes to the next chapter. This word count is sky rocketing but I'm feeling as if this story may settle at eight chapters. I'm also considering making this a series with scenes from other perspectives in the story. I love Sansa but she can't be everywhere. Next up is the battle with the dead. Comments and feedback push me to keep writing, if you see any mistakes let me know. Thank you all for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

The room was still dark, barely lit by the fire giving a full glow. Her eyes fell closed as she soaked in the warmth before the repetition of footfalls registered. Jon paced near the end of the bed, a troubled look on his face. Seeing her eyes upon him he had stuttered as he walked. “Sansa…” The tone struck her, weighted words that pulled upon her. No, she thought to herself. She wanted to just settle in the quiet peace of the night before, tucked together like children still young and innocent. 

“Jon.”

“Those things we must speak of… “ Jon rubbed the back of his head. “Things I haven’t...I don’t think they can wait, Sansa.”

Sansa let her eyes fall closed. She could feel it if she really tried. The moment where the cozy softness of the night before fell away. She smiles softly at Jon, the placid pleasantry fell like a heavy cloak upon her. “Of course.” Her brow creased as she looked at Arya and Bran. "Let them sleep a little longer."

Sansa forced her eyes closed as she heard Jon settle into one of the chairs before the fireplace. When Sansa knows Jon faces away from her she keeps her eyes on the window and watches the dawn creeping upon them. She wonders how long this can last. There are no more ordinary days that fade into a pleasant memory, every single day feels high stakes. How long until they all just collapse from exhaustion? The pace they’re at can’t be sustained.

They aren’t left for peace too much longer, it’s barely an hour before the others stir. Jon just looks at Bran who seems to understand what they’re about to talk a about. Looking at Jon with a weighted gaze that said finally. This is how it all plays out, I know it to be true. Sansa couldn’t settle her gaze, it bouncing between the daylight cresting window and her family members. If it didn’t settle she didn’t have to address any one of them.

“It…” Jon's gaze was unfocused, his dark eyes searching beyond them as if the answers lay somewhere in the past. “I’ve learned things. From Sam and Bran.”

“Like what, Jon?”

Arya’s brash voice cut through the sullen drawn out silence, sat in one of two chairs with her body tensed. She had little patience for delicacy and careful words. A small smile tugged at Jon’s mouth as he looked at Arya, a kinship Sansa had learned in the past months that she could never touch and she was learning not to resent. “I’m...I’m not a Stark. I was never Ned Stark’s son.”

“What?!” Arya snapped.

Sansa fumbled to make sense of the words. Of them all Jon looked the most like Ned Stark’s son, him and Arya sharing his brooding look. Because that had always been the root of it hadn’t it? That they were the same, at the core of it, the blood that ran through their veins echoed in the same ways. That somehow, someway that was why they all ended up here together because of it.

Bran clarified. “He is a Stark, a Stark and a Targaryen. Jon is the child of Lyanna and Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon lets out an uncertain breath. “Lyanna died in childbirth with me, Ned knew…”

Sansa’s head tilted her head back, her mind racing. “Robert Baratheon would never have let you live. The face of Lyanna with the name Targaryen.”

Arya was unfazed, a stubborn glint to her eyes. “You're a Stark if there ever was one. You have Stark blood in your veins.”

Bran’s tone was every unchanging, a voice that always sounds like there was a resonant echo behind it. An otherworldly weight that made it unarguable. “He is a Stark, a Stark and Targeryan. Fire and Ice.”

Oh, she could imagine the tales they tell of the wolf that rode dragons and the queen of traveled over oceans to be with him. Sansa shook herself of the thought, now was not the time. She let her mind linger on the future. Forget the past, tangled together as they were it mattered little in the face of the great destinies that lay before them. “You’ve never claimed it, Jon.” Jon looks at her with uncertain eyes. “I’ve told you before you are a Stark,” Sansa decides. “For as long as you wish.”

Because damn them all. Damn the ones that came before them and kidnapped young girls to be their brides then left them bleeding out as they died on a battlefield. Damn the lies that led them to this place, damn the fact that it all made so much fucking sense. The useless lot of them and the outer edges of the ripple effect that they were left to deal with. Fuck the fact that she can’t help but think of the horrid ripples she makes with every pebble she throws.

Arya’s chin lifted as she grabbed Jon’s hand. “A Stark, for the blood that runs through his veins is just as strong as ours.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Brienne pulls down sharply on the laces of her hardened leather and Sansa grunts at the tightening.

"Okay?"

"Yes." Brienne's eyes flick to hers as she hears the whispered reply. Most days her siblings wouldn’t leave her be and Brienne was left to her own tasks, it had been days since they had talked alone. Sansa can see purple bruises under Brienne’s eyes from stress or lack of sleep she did not know. Sansa clears her throat. "Are you troubled?"

"These are troubling times, I fear."

Sansa hums in agreement. "Any wish to settle your mind before the day to come?"

Brienne pauses in her fastenings of Sansa's armour. "I...no, my lady."

"Brienne, our journey here..well, it only improved when you came to me. I suffered needlessly because of my refusal of your help. You have been a great comfort to me. I only wish to be the same. I would..." Sansa feels a vulnerability overtake her and embarrassment at her request. "I would wish us to be friends."

"We already are. I know things are...complicated."

Sansa pauses, biting back her instinctive guardedness. “I fear I don’t have a lot that is truly mine, Brienne. Most things I claim, they belong to others. I want…” She chuckles to herself. “I want a lot of things honestly. I know you mostly are with me because of my mother.”

“I didn’t know your mother long. But she gave me a purpose, she was fierce in her love for you. Defied your brother, her own king, to see you safe. The love she had, the fierceness she held inside of herself. That’s why I came for you. You have more than earned my loyalty for yourself though, Sansa.” Sansa wanted her love, her friendship. Brienne looks at her, a strange light in her eyes. "You mother would be proud of you.”

The words froze Sansa where she stood. Her mother had seen a far different future for Sansa. Catelyn had fought for her freedom, she knew that, betraying Robb in the process. Sometimes Sansa looks around at the children running about Winterfell and is shocked anew, had she really been that young? She had felt so grown at the time, so sure that she knew the choices she was making. The girl who sang with birds and dreamed of kings died long ago. The Sansa of now was a far different creature than the one her mother had known. "I fear my mother would not know what to do with me."

Brienne lets her fingers trail over the lacings she finished tying. "All the same. You've become an amazing woman." There was a long pause as Brienne avoided her gaze. "What are your thoughts on love?"

Sansa lets out a long measured breath, not wanting to say the wrong thing, to discount any feelings Brienne may have. She was almost certain of the direction this conversation was headed. "I believe that life is a complicated thing, now more than ever. Any love we have in this world, be it of family or romance is one I feel we should embrace." 

Brienne's chin is still tucked to her chest, Sansa need not seek out her eyes for they are cracked open slightly meeting Sansa's gaze. She is one of the only women Sansa has met that is of a taller stature than her. "Even when unreturned?"

Sansa paused. "I cannot tell you the response you will receive if you decide to speak of such a love. You must know that there is also...a pain of love unspoken. To remain unspoken ensures that we suffer it alone. But it’s your own choice, to speak and take the risk or to keep it close to your own heart within your own protection. I cannot tell you of what to do with your feelings, Brienne."

"I cannot imagine he feels the same."

"Then that is his loss. You are one of the strongest, most determined, amazing women I know."

"Not beautiful."

Sansa feels her heart sink and curses herself for the words she chose. "Brienne...I find you quite beautiful. You are tall and statuesque. You have stunning eyes and though you may hate it you draw attention in any room. I apologize, I have come to disdain being called beautiful so it is not the word I tend toward."

A flush has spread across Brienne's face. "I'm sorry my lady, I was not trying to force you to give me compliments."

"I should hand them out far more often. Any man would be lucky to have you. I know Tormund is about ready to throw you over his shoulder."

A small smile pulls at the edge of Brienne's mouth and Sansa delights in it. "That man is mad."

"He's from beyond the wall, I think they believe us mad as well with the way we act."

A clearing of the throat makes them turn. Jon stands near the door, looking every bit of the King he was so briefly. Sansa flushed, wondering how long he had been standing there. "Ladies," Jon acknowledges bowing slightly.

"Jon," Sansa greets. The greeting is undoubtedly stiff, their footing still uncertain after the revelations of this morning.

Brienne looks between them. "I will go see to some of the troops."

"Thank you, Brienne."

"Thank you, my lady."

Sansa grabs her arm giving it a warm squeeze before Brienne quickly leaves the room.

"You look ready for war."

"I am." Jon strides toward her. Looking her over her he tugs on the fastenings of her leathers checking them. "You look tired."

Sansa's eyes shoot to him in offense. Of course she's tired. Sansa had expected to be relieved of some of the duties of ruling when he returned. The betrayal felt by many of the northern lords and their claim that their dealings would go through Sansa had left her minding the North while he was gallivanting about with queens. "Thank you for that."

He grimaced. "That came out wrong."

Sansa's heart stuttered as she noticed his hands not leaving her body. Jon was not quite a full step away from her, with simple boots on they are of the same height, their faces close together. Sansa takes a deep breath feeling as if they share the very air between them. "I think everyone is tired these days. How do you fare?" 

Jon sighs, his hands clenching without anything to do. It finally settles on the sword at his side. “I’m…as well as can be expected.”

“Are you…” Sansa bites back the endless questions she wants to ask, settling on just one. "Are you happy Jon?"

Jon's eyes shoot to hers in surprise. "I am…" His eyes drop to the floor as he pauses, considering the question. "I am content."

Sansa wonders at the wording. Is that a yes? Content as if curled up by a warm fire on a silent winter night, a warm belly and an easy mind? Or content as she was with her marriage to Tyrion, an uneasy truce against far worse fates? 

She would leave it alone if he wished to own up to it, the closeness she sees between him and Daenerys. Though seeing them together feels like fire licking at her fingertips she'd leave it be if it made him happy. Maybe they would stay in King's Landing and she could seclude herself to the North. Sansa could ignore the ache of not seeing him. Jaw clenching Sansa's toes curl within her boots, digging into the floor. They would surely marry, have some kids ...maybe a Robb or Eddard. They would be happy, the stories told of them would be magnificent.

"That is all I wish for you. Happiness."

A deep sigh sounds from Jon. "I think happiness is something to be worked at. It has not come easily for me."

Sansa's eyes fall closed. Sansa thinks of the day in the snow, a wide grin pulling at his face. Jon deserves that all the time, he doesn't deserve the twisted up feelings that Sansa has inside. Sansa opens her eyes, "Jon…”

“Hmmm?”

“What do you wish for?”

“When this is all over?”

“Yes.”

“I know you hate to hear it, but I try and think very little of it.” Jon has a small smile tugging at his lips. “I wish to survive it, then maybe have a day or two where I do hardly any thinking at all.”

Sansa nods though it doesn’t clarify any of her own plans. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She can feel her eyes roll. “Yes, okay. I’m not trying to constantly interrogate you. We just hadn’t talked of it lately.”   
  


Jon’s eyes meet hers. “What do you wish for?”

“Me?” Sansa pauses. “You know...I have this perfect picture in my head of us all from childhood. I’m not even sure if it ever happened at this point. Some days I let myself close my eyes and just live in it for a few moments. I try to remind myself that even if none of this had happened, we never would have ended up here. We would have all been scattered to the winds. You would be on the wall or training to be a knight. I’d still be married off to some Lord that they hoped I would grow to love someday. Arya would hate her life, Bran and Rickon would move and make households of their own as Robb ruled Winterfell. So no matter how much I wish for it, I have to be content that we are all here together. That’s all I hope the future holds, more days where we all get to be together.”

Jon nods, a sad glimmer in his eyes. “That’s really nice, Sansa. I wish for that as well.” He pauses. "I expect you to be in the crypts today."

Sansa's brow arches. "Oh, you do?"

"It's the safest."

Sansa straightens and takes a step away from him. "So it has been said."

"And...it will do people good to see you there. They'll look to you to see how to deal with the situations that arise."

"I'm the Lady of Winterfell, I'll be in the castle."

Jon looked at her in dismay. "Arya was telling me you refused to give her any certainties."

"I'm glad you two have found time to talk about me. There are no certainties here, Jon. If you think I'll be in the crypts as my home falls around me then you're wrong."

Jon lets out a frustrated grunt before shaking his head. Jon's hand reaches up to tug on a lock of hair, still wildly falling around her face. "You'll need to do something about this."

"Of course, I plan to braid it back."

"Hmmm," his fingers haven't dropped it. Jon's eyes are transfixed upon the place where they meet and Jon's other hand comes up to cup her cheek. "I need you to be safe, Sansa."

"I'll make it through, I always do somehow." A horn blows and Sansa flinches her eyes darting toward the door. "It's time."

Sansa sways closer to him, pulled without reason. Seven hells, she may die today. Jon may die and she’ll never feel the warmth of him again. The North may burn as the walls of Winterfell fall around them. His thumb slowly traces her jaw and then finds a settled place at the corner of her mouth and her eyes close at the contact. Biting her lip Sansa takes a slow measured breath as he pulls her closer to him.

Letting herself sink into the hug Sansa can feel her brow crinkle. It's just moments like these that break her. Everytime she promises herself that she'll stay away she's tempted by the warmth of him. How could she not want this? She's selfish to want this all the time. He didn't ask to be her comfort, her steady ground as the world raged around them. A horn blows again and Sansa let's go.

There’s a long pause as Jon seems to struggle before grabbing her hand, he gives it a firm squeeze before he leaves the room. Sansa is left feeling cold as she wraps her arms around herself. Panic has given way to a burning shame. The end of times and she is stuck in the same loop of want and loss. It’s all she can do not to picture him stiff, cold, and gone from this world.

  
  
  
  
  
  


As a child these were Sansa's favorites.  _ Tell me a story,  _ she would beg.  _ A good one! Make it exciting with good versus evil. Tell me of a hero who suffers through tragedy and triumphs in the end. I like the one where the hero fells the villian with one sure blow. It's going to end happy right? _ War is messy. It's a bloody, stepping over bodies, air thick with blood messy. Facts like these never make it in the stories. Once the chaos starts it's unrelenting and fast. Descriptive battles take minutes to tell but a dozen sword moves happen in seconds. Men are cut down in the blink of an eye. 

When the bodies start being dragged into the great hall Sansa can't ignore the chaos. Men screaming with limbs missing, blood smearing upon the floor. There are guards patrolling whose only job is to make sure those that pass stay dead. At first Sansa just throws dirt on the floor to soak up blood and sweeps it away but before long Sansa finds herself stitching wounds. Her fingers start pruning from the constant contact with blood. She tries to stop herself from flinching every time she hears the screeching of a dragon. Sansa can't stop herself from humming, the reverberation through her mind leaving her to focus on the task at hand. "I like that."

"What?" Sansa looks up from the wounded thigh she was stitching. Large green eyes looked back at her.

"The singing." The voice was weak but kind, a small smile tugging across his face. His head laid back as his eyes closed. "It's pretty."

Sansa couldn't help the smile in response. "Thank you, I'm not even sure what I was singing…" her eyes fell to the garish wound she was stitching. It cut straight across his thigh. There was a sick sense of satisfaction as it slowly closed as she stitched in a neat row. 

Sansa hummed a simple melody. It was a mindless tune, one from when she was a child that she hardly remembered the words to. If her mind was focused on the next stitch, the next note in a song then there was little time for her to think of the fate of the rest of the world hinging on actions that were taking place less than a hundred yards from her.

"My lady."

Sansa looks up meeting the solemn eyes of Armen, a guard who had been patrolling the hall with a dark dragon glass dagger at his hip. "Hmm?"

"He's gone, my lady."

Sansa's eyes moved up from the wound, only a few stitches away from sealing it completely to see glassy green staring at the ceiling. "Oh." She hadn't noticed. "Thank you." Sansa slowly pulls her needle away, reluctant to give in to the fact that it was useless at this point. She wishes it was the first man to expire as she stitched but he wasn't, he would not be the last either she was sure. 

Sansa’s breath hitched as she reached to close his eyes. The act felt more like killing to her than the wound inflicted had probably felt to his foe. Who was she to close those eyes for the last time? What person was waiting for him to come home? Were they in the rage of battle this very moment thinking to themselves  _ one more second, one more minute, one more fallen to my blade before I see you again my love, my son, my friend. _ Sansa shakes herself from her melancholy thoughts. She'll remember though, if there is no one left to do it she'll remember those sea green eyes and hopes her melody carried him through to whatever was next.

A small nod is her response. "Of course, my lady "

Sansa wipes her hands on her blood stained dress, most of her armour has fallen away in the heat of the hall packed with bodies and a roaring fire. There is a constant murmur of groans and whimpers as those around them suffer their wounds. Men are still pulled in, many of them dragged by their feet. It's chaos, all of it. The door opens and a wall of noise competes with the one inside.

Sansa drifts to the double doors that barely keep the cold out with the constant opening. The hall swings wildly between blistering heat and sharp cold. The sweat on her body cools in an instant as she shivers. The snow crunches beneath her feet as she strays off the well beaten path out of the hall. 

She looks skyward, though the screeching dragons echo through the night she cannot see them. Clouds hang low in the sky obscuring any idea of what is happening.  _ Please,  _ she thinks. Her eyes catch on a bird...a raven diving towards the godswood. Bran.

Before she can stop herself she is sprinting towards the forest. Her feet unerringly finding the path that she's taken many times before, weaving effortlessly through the trees. She stutters to a stop at the treeline. The weirwood tree standing tall in the clearing before her.

Bodies fan out from the tree in a macabre pattern. Sansa doesn't take too long to look over them, she knows all too well that Theon is among them. Her only thought is for her brother. Please, oh God's, not him. Not again. Bran lays against the tree, his chair off to the side. It's been forgotten or cast aside in the conflict. Across the clearing is the otherworldly Night King. Torn from the pages of one of her storybooks, he is almost laughably villainesque. Her breath still stutters to a stop in her chest at the sight of him.

Sansa uses her long gait to reach Bran in seconds, throwing herself into her knees before him. She knows. She knows this is madness. Sansa isn't magic. She doesn't see the past or raise the dead. But she's here. If she is the only thing standing between her brother and the end then by gods, let it be her.

The cold sinks into Sansa’s dress as she kneels beside Bran. His body is sprawled out before the Weirwood tree, the harrowing face watching the scene unfold before it. Eyes weeping sap, yet stoic in it's observance. Oh the folly of men and creatures. So fleeting in the face of eons. This is but a second in a lifetime to ancient gods. “No, no.” Sansa whimpers, laying her body over his, shielding what little she could.

“It’s okay.” Bran replies as the Night King advances. Sansa presses her cheek to his, a trembling hand cupping his jaw. “This is the way it was always going to end.”

For a short moment it feels as if the world holds its breath. For a second Sansa can almost believe her love, her body is shield enough to stop it all. Just give me this, she thinks. A deep lancing pain tears through her. Sansa screams as a spear grazes her side and she hears a grunt below her. Her hand shakes as she reaches down, "No." A wet cough comes from Bran. The spear that had torn through her side was sunk in Bran's chest. Her shaking hands push at the edges of the spear as if by thought alone she could close the wound. 

A red pool blooms around them staining the snow. Her heart feels as if it will break through her chest, pounding as hard as a hammer as the crunch of snow grows closer. Meeting Bran’s eyes Sansa ignores the tears spilling over her cheeks. "Run," he whispers. A faint gurgle stains his words.

Sansa feels her face crumple, greif an unwelcome presence. “I won’t leave you.” Even as tears stream down her face she grasps her arms around him.  _ I'm here. Don't go, I'm here. You are not alone.  _ She can’t imagine leaving him, leaving him here alone to die. Lonely and cold as the world falls around them.

Sansa hears a scream and looks back to see Arya held aloft by the hand of the Night King. Arya grunts, hand catching a falling blade before plunging it into the heart of the Night King. Sansa watches in shock as Arya falls to the ground as the Night King disintegrates, snow and ice blowing in the wind. The sudden silence rings through the dark as the connection is severed, dead falling where they stand.

A hiccuping sob escapes as the shock of the moment overtakes her. Looking down Sansa sees empty eyes staring back at her, all life gone from them. “Bran?” Sansa begs. “You have to wake up, it’s over. Please, please.”

Sansa can’t take her eyes off the body before her. Eyes that never held the hellish glint he had as a child again. Arms that would never hold a child of his own. A thousand memories that would never be made. Tears are now a steady stream as she grasps his body. He's still warm, he's not gone. A whimper escapes her as she buries her head in his still chest and begs for him to take another breath. 

A still presence looks over her. Looking up she sees tears in Arya's eyes. "Is he gone?"

Her head shakes, jaw quivering as emotion overtakes her. "He can’t-" Sansa raises her head from his chest and meets his glassy brown eyes as he stares skyward. Hadn't they paid enough? Why take him? Half of her family was already gone, forever young. Sansa gently sets her hand on his brow before sweeping it gently down to close his eyes. "He's dead."

Arya shakes her head, her eyes lifting skyward as she sighs. "Seven hells."

Sansa whimpers as she falls onto her rear, the deep cut on her side searing with pain. "Is it over?"

Screams still tear through the night but the clash of swords seems to have died down. One of Arya's shoulders lifts in an uncertain shrug before she falls to her knees beside them. Arya's hand shakes as she gently lays it on Bran's forehead, fingers brushing his thick dark hair. "Not soon enough."

Sansa feels her face crumple as she snakes an arm around Arya's ribcage. She turns her face into the crook of her shoulder as Arya tilts her head back into Sansa's, resting them together. Sansa feels a yawning ache within her as they sit among the bodies. Jon finds them wrapped together, Stark blood slowly seeping into the grounds of Winterfell.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Toast, congratulate, smile to the people. Back straight, hair back, smile to the people. Small bites, be thankful, toast. Smile to the people. _ Her mind is stuck in a loop, stuck here at the head of the table in the great hall.  _ Smile. _ Sansa watches as Daenerys smiles toward Jon as he turns away from Sansa to talk to her. Her smile falls as soon as Jon isn't looking, her lips twist into a grimace at the pain still pulling at her side. Sansa had swept her cloak around her before either of her siblings caught a glimpse of it. Jon she is sure missed it, if Arya did she let Sansa keep it to herself. She rises from her seat and heads toward the door. 

Movement is slow as she is stopped by many. There are people with wide grins, voices echoing with rowdy elation of survival. Others are hunched over as if protecting the newly wrought holes of loss ripped from their souls, eyes glossy with tears. The hall is a dichotomy of grief and it leaves Sansa off kilter, her own losses she leaves to grieve when alone. Her loved ones were just a few in the piles of bodies to be burned tomorrow.

Everyone is so freely touching those around them, a reassurance that they're alive. Sansa has flinched more than once at an unexpected touch and there is a steady crawling anxiousness she had been fighting all night. She too often seeks the gaze of Jon or of Brienne yet they are all wrapped within their own ranks, their own people, and Sansa quickly turns away before they see her desperation. 

When she finally reaches the nearby hall she breathes a deep sigh of relief at the blessed silence that greets her. The noise of the hall is muffled now and the heels of her boots echo on the stones beneath her as she wanders down the hall. The halls are mostly empty, even those who work in the castle are finding their way to the great hall drawn from their duties by music and laughter. Sansa hums as her eyes fall closed. She strays but not too far, she'll have to return soon. Arya had vanished just as the festivities started and Sansa is achingly jealous. They all had their burdens in the end she supposed.

A few moments of wandering and she let her eyes fall close as she hears the familiar clicking of nails against stone. Her hand automatically fell to Ghost's head, her nails running into the scruff of his neck still stiff from the horrors of whatever he had been through. Sansa lets him lead her, trusting him not to lead her astray. She waits a few moments before making the decision, Sansa hesitates looking back toward the hall. She should really go back. She should, but they surely wouldn't miss her much. Everyone had already eaten, at this point they would all be getting into their cups.

Sansa takes a shuddering breath before taking the familiar path to her room. Ghost follows along matching her pace, when she gets to her room she drags one of the simple wooden chairs and wedges it under the door. Any entry into the room would be sure to wake her. The direwolf doesn’t hesitate to hop up on her bed, circling a few times before coming to a rest. She lays down on the bed beside Ghost, notching her head into his side. His warm fur was a welcome respite. He snuffles at her ear, gently nipping the lobe before curling around her. Ghost faces the door, his eyes fall closed with a long sigh but his ears are still perked listening for any disturbance.

Sansa lets the steady beat of Ghost’s heart fill her ears, lets it drown out any of her own thoughts. She matches her hitching breaths to his own steady rhythm. Before long she drifts, exhausted and aching from battle and her own grief.

  
  
  
  


When she wakes her mouth is tacky with dehydration and Ghost is still sprawled beneath her. He is still rightly tucked around her, though slightly more relaxed. "Ghost," she whispers, nudging him. She can't help the breathless giggle as his brows move but he ignores her otherwise. 

Sansa can't help her smile, she runs her nails along his cheeks scratching and he huffs in pleasure. She gently presses their foreheads together and he licks her under her chin. Ghost has been an endless source of comfort for her since he returned with Jon. "You're my favorite," she tells him quietly.

After a long moment she rises, she reaches her arms pushing toward the ceiling. A shiver wracking her body. The movement pulls at her side, it having stiffened up while she slept. Sansa is almost scared to look at it. Sansa cocks her head, listening for any sounds that ring through the night. How long had it been?

Hearing silence, Sansa decides to let it be. They would have sought her out if they had needed her. Sansa takes the moment to strip herself of her clothes. Her shift beneath her gown is dirty, only the outer layers had been changed in the rush to commence the celebrations. She takes a couple of quick breaths before looking down to her side. The blood had faded into an unpleasant brown as it dried, sticking to her wound. Trying to gently tug the fabric she whimpered as it pulled unpleasantly. She has a pitcher of water she could try and wet the fabric until it pulled away. She had her dagger, she could try to cut around the dried fabric. Sansa snorts as she imagines having to explain how she stabbed herself in the stomach. The chair before the door rattles as someone tries to test the door.

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice whispers through the small gap between the door and wall. Ghost’s ears perk at the sound of his voice and he sits up on bed.

Sansa considers her options. “Are you alone?”

There’s a laden pause. “Yes.”

Walking over to the door she drags the chair away from it. Jon takes the opportunity to open the door. “I’ve been looking for you.” Sansa arches a brow as he sees her and quickly flushes and his eyes dart away. “You’re not dressed.”   
  


“Not fully no.” She takes a moment to enjoy his awkwardness before sighing. “I was injured.”

“What?!” His eyes dart back to her and settle on her side. “What happened?”

Her throat thickens at the question, the memory of Bran beneath her and the little she could do to protect him. “Just...in the chaos of it all.”

Jon strides over to her, eyes stuck on the wound at her side. He hisses out sympathetically as he sees the fabric stuck to it. Her eyes are stuck on him as he gently smooths out the shift, his eyes soft as he tries to be gentle. There’s light bruising along his cheek and somehow in this moment Sansa can’t help herself. Sansa leans in and surely presses her mouth to Jon’s. It’s more awkward than she expected, dry mouths pressing together. As a few seconds pass she can feel her stomach begin to clench in horror, her breath echoing heavily in the silence of the room. 

Sansa pulls away slightly and is met with shocked eyes, she flinches away but is stopped by the hand he still has clasped around the base of her jaw. “No.” Jon gently pulls her toward him again, mouths meeting. Where she had expected to feel a rush of wanton desire is sticky sweet comfort spreading, fingers tingle as she grasps the tunic in front of her. His mouth slants, gently parting her own as she is pulled to him. Jon’s tongue brushes over her bottom lip. A whimper escapes as she sinks into the kiss. They part only a moment later.

Both of their eyes are wide as they meet. Oh god, what has she done? She brings her forehead to rest on his collarbone as her breath heaves. She can feel Jon's hands hesitate near her waist. Sansa's hands are still fisted in his tunic and she lets go, pushing away from him. 

Jon's eyes are weighted and unreadable as she distances herself. "Sansa."

Sansa shifts a hand going to her still tingling mouth. "We should not have done that."

Jon warily watches her, mouth parted though words did not come. Sansa's hands are shaking as she stumbles a few steps away. Sansa shakes off the hand grabbing for her shoulder as she makes for the door. Jon does not let her leave, as she reaches the door he reaches past her to pin one hand to it, ensuring it stays closed. A steady thrum of anxiety beating seems to crawl through her veins. Oh god, what had she done?

Breath hitching Sansa doesn't realize there are tears in her eyes until she turns and sees the blurred image of Jon leaning over her. She can't breathe. Her body is fighting against her. Sansa needs to think but her mind won't settle too consumed with the fear she's suffocating. She presses a hand against her chest, feeling her own rising panic.

"Sansa?" Jon's worried question is muffled as her heartbeat pounds like a drum.

"I cant-" Sansa's breath is hitching. "I didn't-"

Jon's hands cup her elbows squaring her to him. "Sansa, you have to breathe." 

Sansa nods, she knows this. She's becoming lightheaded as she fights for air. Jon grunts as her weight drops, knees giving out and he gently guides them to a seated position on the floor. Sansa eyes squeeze shut as she turns her head into the back of the door she's pressed against.

The air is rushing around her. Sansa can feel her breaths start to lengthen, the ground still rocking under her with the pulsing of her panic. Jon has the back of her hand pressed against his chest. His heart is sure, an unrelenting steadiness. Sansa bites her bottom lip hard, the taste of blood strangely comforting. She feels a thumb reach up to tug on it, pulling it from her teeth. "Hey, none of that." His voice is low and the vibrations travel up her arm.

The rush of air on her split lip stings and it does more to steady her than most anything else. Jon heaves a deep sigh and she hears him shift in front of her. Sansa refuses to open her eyes, a silly stubborn thought. If they stay closed, they don't have to talk about it. It was a small kiss, a damning one but no one really had to know about it.

"Hhmmmm, we're a mess aren't we?" Jon chuckles. He pulls her hand to him, fingers caressing her own.

"I'm sorry." Sansa whispered.

"You have nothing to apologise for."

“It was a mistake.”

“I...right now, any shred of comfort is welcome.”

"It wasn't just that."

Jon takes a measured breath. "Sansa, there's so much happening right now."

Sansa is already shaking her head before the sentence is finished. He doesn't understand. Maybe he thinks it was some mad urge in the aftermath of battle. Sansa’s voice breaks as her lower jaw quivers. "I think there's something wrong with me. They took something from me, Jon.” Tears spill as she shakes her head, eyes opening to meet his, her free hand pressing desperately to her racing heart. “I don’t know what it was. But it is gone. ” Sansa takes a quick gasping breath.

Jons hums in acknowledgement. “You aren’t wrong, Sansa.”

“I am, the things I feel...” Sansa lets out a gasping breath. Jon is just staring at her. Sansa slams an open palm into Jon’s shoulder as tears are burning her eyes and he grunts at the impact. “Stop just looking at me!”

“Sansa! I-”

"You talk down to me one more time, Jon Snow!” Jon’s eyes are wide and even Sansa is surprised at her own dramatics. “You nod your head and ignore our conversations. You trade what I have won without thought to what it has done to me. You seek respite with me but leave my mind restless. I know I’m not alone in this. How is this fair to me?!”

Jon’s head shakes as his eyes turn upward as if seeking words beyond themselves. “I...it’s not.”

Sansa knows she isn’t being fair but she can feel time running out. “If we don't survive her conquering the Seven Kingdoms, if this is the end, Jon. This is what we are left with. You leave me with these memories, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sense of it.”

“Sansa, I’m trying to do the right thing here! They've taken everything from me as well. My family, a rightness I believed in. Time presses on and I fear I’ve lost more than I will ever get back. This life...I’m trying to find the honor in it. Every war, every battle I find myself in. There is no honor here though. It is a bloody, heartless thing. Men die, righteous ones and wicked ones all the same. We know that as well as any. All I know is survival right now, I'm just trying to get through this.”

Sansa wipes at her tear stained cheeks. “What is the end of this?"

“I'd do anything to keep you all safe.” Jon’s lips curl in a small, sad smile. “I keep trying to do the right thing and I keep failing. Every story we are told, in every history there is a right and a wrong. I fear I am lost in the in between.”

Sansa can’t help the small raising of her lips. Their souls are the same, shades of gray in a battle of black and white. “I love you.” Sansa feels a sadness sunk to her very bones. It no longer mattered. The past and future have fallen away. “I shouldn’t but I do.”

Jon lets out a long measured breath. Sansa tries to read him but his eyes stay shaded. “Sansa, all I know is that choosing you has been one of the few things that have made sense to me since we left this place. You are calm in all this chaos.”

"It doesn't feel like it." There is so much fighting within her all the time. Sansa feels like a winter storm, blowing winds with shards of ice cutting through the air.

Jon drops her hand in favor of cupping a warm hand against her cheek, he pulls her closer to press their cheeks together. “You are. When I am lost I look to you. There has always been a sureness, a future you know that I do not." His opposite hand presses against her own that still lays flat against her chest. “I know things have been confusing.”

Sansa turns her face in, tucking her nose into the divot where his neck meets. “It’s…” Sansa’s hand raises, a vague hand gesturing to her head. “I think far too much.”

“You don’t. You just speak far too little.” Jon chuckles. “The workings of your mind are far out of reach to me.” Jon uses the hands he has on her body to pull her to her feet along with him. Keeping her cheek pressed against hers for a long moment he sways with her. “No matter what, I do love you...in many ways.”

Sansa can't help the burning confusion, Sansa feels greedy to be left wanting in this moment. She wants...she just wants to be wanted. Sansa can't help but feel like she's lacking in some way. She is never anyone's first choice. “This is…”

Jon pulls away, eyes searching her own. He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth and Sansa falls forward a step as he pulls away from her, her gaze on the floor. “Sansa, I swear to you, we will talk later. About all of this.”

She nods, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "Later." The words are a promise, a vow of a future he spoke little about. Jon's eyes are darting over her shoulder at the door and Sansa’s gut burns. “Go.”

Jon’s eyes guiltily meet hers and Sansa sighs. “I-”

“It’s fine, just go to her.”

He pauses by the door, seemingly weighing his words. "She's going South soon, she will expect the North to go along with her needs. If you would just try-"

A flash of fury flares within her. "If I would?! I am barely keeping this castle running with half the North here, two outside armies, our own troops, our own servants, two dragons-Jon, I don't have time to stroke her ego!"

Jon turns toward her, his eyes holding a deep exhaustion. "Daenerys is on edge if you could just give a little bit, Sansa. I'm not asking you to marry the woman, just be nice to her."

"I've tried, Jon, when I didn't kiss her feet and call her our savior she iced me out. I am trying to see the good in her and I do. She's probably saved more people than I can imagine, clearly thousands believe in her to follow her across the sea."

"Then what is the problem?! She saved us."

"She has had one conversation with me! One. When I didn't tell her what she wanted she focused her efforts elsewhere. She helped save the North, but she didn't do it for us. Maybe for you. We are not her people, Jon."

"She's the rightful heir of-"

"Until she wasn't. I grieve for her, I do. I fear our stories have too many similarities. People keep telling me she's young, to give her time. There are things that time can't teach, a conqueror will always wish to conquer. She isn't reclaiming a home she loves; she's seeking vengeance for a childhood she will never have. Daenerys won't find peace here and she won't stop until she does. She doesn't know this life. I understand it's her birthplace, I know she feels drawn to it."

"You are going to defy her, when she's about to hold the Seven Kingdoms?"

"She offered Yara Greyjoy her freedom, why weren't we given the same? Is she already going back on her word to her?"

"We had nothing to offer…"

"You didn't offer anything, she just demanded you bend the knee. Do you know why, Jon? She is not a queen, she's a conqueror. She doesn't care about trade or supplies, she deals in war and troops."

"People will rally-"

"Jon, she's bearing down on her future subjects with a dragon and two invading armies. People who are tired of war, tired of invaders and the destinies of the highborn. They don't care who is the rightful heir of anything, they care who is keeping their food supply steady. They care who is patrolling their roads and letting them rest easy at night. Daenerys burned a year's supply of food in seconds, I guarantee Cersei has told them who kept food off their tables. There's a reason that King's Landing isn't rioting every other day, they don't linger on the details of politics until it takes the food out of their mouths. Daenerys travels with men who only know battle and war. Even if she stops, they won't." Sansa pleads with him. "Are they going to pillage towns while she sits pretty on the throne until it's a comfortable fit? Is she just going to send them back when she is satisfied that she has a grip on Westeros? Will she ever feel safe enough here?"

"She'll learn. What she doesn't know, she'll have advisors and faithful subjects. You just need to work with her..." Jon gives her a hollow smile, shaking his head. "I think you could learn a lot from each other."

Sansa hates the sting of the words. She's tried to bend and bend until the world was more forgiving, until time had made the winds gentler and kinder but she won't bend here. "I won't bow to her. You'll see me dead before I'm on my knees again. I've bowed too often to pretty women who have dreams of the future. I've begged on my knees for mercy, for safety, and I refuse to do it again. The day I bend the knee is the day you'll find me at the bottom of a tower."

"Don't say that, if Robb was here-"

"Robb let me rot in King's Landing to try and free the North,” Sansa snaps. “If you think he would have bent the knee to Daenerys Targeryan you're mistaken."

He holds his hands up in supplication, he has heard stories as well as she of Robb slinking through the night alongside his direwolf. Robb tore through the countryside to seek revenge, to carve out his place in this world. If anything Daenerys was more like him than Sansa was. Sansa's eyes close as a strange realization falls into place. Some of the distrust she feels for Daenerys is tangled with the betrayal she still feels toward Robb for leaving her to the whims of the Lannister's.

Sansa raises her head. "Daenerys doesn't rule the North, Jon. We have all paid in blood for our freedom. I cannot give it up so easily. She would be hard fought to hold the North and East without me." Her eyes fall to Ghost nestled near her. "I fear Daenerys sees me as an obstacle but my death wouldn't solve this problem, I'm echoing the words spoken to me a hundred times while you were gone. The very ground I walk on is due more loyalty than Daeynerys Targeryan. I wish I believed in her, I wish I saw a bright sparkling future with festivals and peace instead of dragon fire but I don't."

Jon is staring at her like he barely knows her, maybe he doesn't. Sansa knows he softens her, she knows she melts into him when they are alone. Sansa has bit her cheeks bloody waiting for the pieces to fall into place of this plan she thought he had. "You're going to get us all killed."

Sansa gestures toward the door. "Ask how many of them would rather die right here and now than bow to her. If you haven't noticed none of us have. Just you. I am the one holding the North, Jon. Arya belongs to the shadows, she won't ever want the weight of Winterfell." She looks at him with sadness "I don't know who you belong to but it's not me, you don't claim this place as your own. You belong to...to a bigger plan, a destiny that I can't fight you on anymore."

"Sansa, you can't speak like this."

"I've made promises, Jon. I can't be a casualty in her path to greatness. I'm not good at fighting battles but this...I was born for this. I was born to guide households, to hold up kings. I've seen women shape wars, I've seen kingdoms defended by one person refusing to bend." Sansa sighed. "I'm tired, Jon. Of destiny and prophecy. There's no greatness at the end of this path. I'm not getting a sweet husband and sweet babes, there's no easy way out here. The North trusts me to protect it and I'll die here if need be. Test me, Jon. See what line I won't cross to protect the North. I'd paint it red with my own blood to keep it out of that woman's hands."

Jon looks at her in shock. For the first time Sansa is so clearly daring him to cross her.

"When she goes to King's Landing she won't come back North without a fight."


End file.
